Since I’ve started thinking again I can’t seem to get Rachel F off my mind. A fine mess I’ve gotten myself into. I know I’m an idiot, but still cling to the hope that we will meet again. After such a disastrous start, it can only be good times from here on in. I’ve never had the hots for someone so bad. I want to tug her hair, lick her forehead, smell the backs of her knees. I know not where these ideas come from. Scouts honor.
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It all started about a month ago, just before school evacuated it’s bowels for summer. I was using the time between classes to evacuate bowels in a stinky cubicle, thinking how terrible it would be to find the smell of your own shit just as gorge-risingly-rank as someone else’s. Ha! God missed the chance of a good joke there.
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Out in the hall moments before spotting Rachel, Pete had asked if I’d like to go out the following night, just the guys, for a few drinks, maybe roll the die. I declined, too much studying, maybe next time. He understood. Then, over his shoulder, a vision of loveliness the likes of which I’d never seen, snagged my gaze and hitched my breath.
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Out in the hall moments before spotting Rachel, Pete had asked if I’d like to go out the following night, just the guys, for a few drinks, maybe roll the die. I declined, too much studying, maybe next time. He understood. Then, over his shoulder, a vision of loveliness the likes of which I’d never seen, snagged my gaze and hitched my breath.
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Who is this spankingly beautiful stranger that makes your eyes smart? the floating me asked in a hushed whisper.
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If she’s a pupil at this school I don’t recognize her.
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Maybe she’s the new kid on the block –
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Not a bit. Pete put me straight. Turned out to be none other than Rachel Ferguson! Man, has she changed!
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When did all this happen? Where have you been?
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Questions descended. Whatever sonofabitch is going out with her is one lucky bastard. I guess she’s 15 or 16 now. Whatever, she’s a real little cutie. A Babette, as Troy
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Just as I thought that’s a load off my mind, the bell went. Shit! Where’s the toilet paper? I never thought I’d say this, but I’d have settled for a handful of dock leaves – perhaps even a bunch of nettles – at that moment. I remember thinking: Why does this kind of shit always happen to me?
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Words stick in wrist like a splinter of chicken-bone in the throat. What’s a person supposed to write in a journal anyway?
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Words stick in wrist like a splinter of chicken-bone in the throat. What’s a person supposed to write in a journal anyway?
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James T Kirk’s voice in my head: Captain’s Log – Stardate 200? – a space oddity. At Warp Factor 9, the crew of the SS Enterprise are violently tossed about the deck as we enter what appears to be another Blackhole. If Einstein was right – and if we are not interfered with by Klingons – we should arrive on planet Dark Place five minutes ago, just before we took off.
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To tell the truth, I don’t know if we’re coming or going.
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473. 472...
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Kitchen door opening – (oh gawd, don’t tell me that Jack’s up now) I raise myself a few feet to see him appearing on porch below, bald spot reflecting moonlight, standing still to light a cigarette - and the squeaky sound of rusty springs as the door pulls shut.
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Somebody’s going to have to talk to Mr Leary (an ex-Marine) about his Rottweiler.
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Jack sucks a long lungful of smoke, holds it, blows it out and upward. Shuffles down driveway past car (thank God he’s not taking it) and out onto the sidewalk. Heads off in the direction of Maggie’s Pub.
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He’s having a lot of trouble with sleeping thesedays. Me too. Like father, like son.
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I look over at Stevens’ yard. He’s nowhere to be seen.
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Sleep. She seems to be calling to me. Maybe she’ll be sincere tonight and let me float in unconscious darkness. Maybe she’s feeling playful, wants to play hide and seek. We shall see.
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Goodnight Dad, you old drunk you. Goodnight Mr Stevens, you sadsorry man. Goodnight Rachel. Goodnight Journal - nice talking to you.
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