Chapter XXXVI: Life is a Mystery - Part 1
Chapter Thirty-Six: Life is a Mystery--Part 1
When Jack Kerouac wrote about a drop of rain in the ocean, he was talking about my life.
It was a nothing night, destined for the trash bin of memories except we broke the mold. You should know what that means. Yeah, I'll drink as much as I want. You think you can cut me off? Go to hell. You don't know Ray Knight. Not like I know him, not like I knew him on that night. You don't know me. You don't know my baby. I'm just kidding. I'm your bitch. Don't worry. I love you.
This is the song. The air smelled as empty as our lockers at BHHS. I wanted to be walking to high school again, carrying my books past the kids smoking a bong in the forest, confident and better dressed, with money in my pocket, with good questions for the teachers. I wanted to ask out all the girls who passed me by in the hall. The cold night reminded me of the empty nights at Ogden's Point Remember? We were looking for something we left behind or were never meant to find. Kodiak and I went back to find it, driving in circles, looking, hoping to find it where we left it under the bleachers, or stuck to the bottom of a desk, or in our old lockers, or at home plate in Leary Field. But what was it, Sticky? We didn't know.
We're old. We've reached this drunk-driving age, this smoking pot in the bathroom, this getting a belly too big to fit in our high school jeans, this old enough to buy porn but still jerking off to the ones you stole from your father, this bare patch on our scalps age. One of us has to be sacrificed to the Wraiths, Sticky. One of us has to stay behind. Just like Wynn and Scoobie. We all can't go on. But I don't know who it will be. Do you?
What are you looking at, punk? Go back to Riversook, you Masshole. I'll fight you if you want. I'll kick your ass too. Me and my boy Sticky will kick your ass up and down Whaleswood Beach. You don't got the Oil Can Boyds to fight me. That's right.
We all have to sacrifice something, don't we Sticky. Just like Spike Owen laying down the bunt in the seventh inning. McNamara should've let him hit. You know it. If Owen gets a hit then Clemens can sacrifice and pitch in the eighth inning. Then the Sox win. That is what sacrifice means. Haven't you sacrificed something so dear to you? Haven't you? No, not here, not tonight. This is just an R rated Brady Bunch episode. It's all fun and games until someone looses an eye or a World Series Ring. Don't play ball in the house, Sticky.
You wanna know what happened? Fine. Don't play ball in the house. That's what happened.
When Jack Kerouac wrote about a drop of rain in the ocean, he was talking about my life.
It was a nothing night, destined for the trash bin of memories except we broke the mold. You should know what that means. Yeah, I'll drink as much as I want. You think you can cut me off? Go to hell. You don't know Ray Knight. Not like I know him, not like I knew him on that night. You don't know me. You don't know my baby. I'm just kidding. I'm your bitch. Don't worry. I love you.
This is the song. The air smelled as empty as our lockers at BHHS. I wanted to be walking to high school again, carrying my books past the kids smoking a bong in the forest, confident and better dressed, with money in my pocket, with good questions for the teachers. I wanted to ask out all the girls who passed me by in the hall. The cold night reminded me of the empty nights at Ogden's Point Remember? We were looking for something we left behind or were never meant to find. Kodiak and I went back to find it, driving in circles, looking, hoping to find it where we left it under the bleachers, or stuck to the bottom of a desk, or in our old lockers, or at home plate in Leary Field. But what was it, Sticky? We didn't know.
We're old. We've reached this drunk-driving age, this smoking pot in the bathroom, this getting a belly too big to fit in our high school jeans, this old enough to buy porn but still jerking off to the ones you stole from your father, this bare patch on our scalps age. One of us has to be sacrificed to the Wraiths, Sticky. One of us has to stay behind. Just like Wynn and Scoobie. We all can't go on. But I don't know who it will be. Do you?
What are you looking at, punk? Go back to Riversook, you Masshole. I'll fight you if you want. I'll kick your ass too. Me and my boy Sticky will kick your ass up and down Whaleswood Beach. You don't got the Oil Can Boyds to fight me. That's right.
We all have to sacrifice something, don't we Sticky. Just like Spike Owen laying down the bunt in the seventh inning. McNamara should've let him hit. You know it. If Owen gets a hit then Clemens can sacrifice and pitch in the eighth inning. Then the Sox win. That is what sacrifice means. Haven't you sacrificed something so dear to you? Haven't you? No, not here, not tonight. This is just an R rated Brady Bunch episode. It's all fun and games until someone looses an eye or a World Series Ring. Don't play ball in the house, Sticky.
You wanna know what happened? Fine. Don't play ball in the house. That's what happened.
posted by Oggy Bleacher | 8:13 PM
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