Debilitating Lame Gas (424 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.16 on 9 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by kL (View user info) at 2007-06-08 16:39:21 EDT
The lunch time swirl and mayhem is all around now, but I ain't touchin' it. Ringing bells and kids eating greasy fries off sanitizer sticky tables. I'm not eating 'cause my lunch is sitting on the counter back home, but I'm hoping that the girl will come by and share some mango, or celery, or whatever girlie lunch she has. And I'm writing. Writing and thinking about guile.
Guile, you know? The absolute worst. See, I've thought a bit about guile, looking at people, and turns out it's the worst. Looking at that kid with the yo-yo. Yeah, you know. The one with the chocolate pudding for lunch, with the sweaty pits and the burgeoning mono-brow. See that kid's okay. He's just smiling his dopey smile, and taking his abuse, not knowing what the fuck else to do. That's some guileless ace. Well, now I'm swinging my all-seeing eye over to them, that crowd. There's that kid with the lace-up Nikes and the button-down face. I can see his eyes watching everything, that kid can see. And he's got vision ten moves ahead like Kasparov, seeing who to like, what to buy, what to say. But he's playing the game like a little girl Chinese chess prodigy; twirling the pieces and pouting it up, knowing full well that her opponent is fucked. He's got the blank face of innocence but I can see his heart, 'cause it reminds me of mine, and it's full of guile. Guile the worst. Guile, knowing the repercussions of everything you do, so you can't play anything straight.
And I'm writing this and the girl is coming to sit next to me. Now I'm thinking I don't want her to read this shit, so I'm closing the book, but I'm leaving it on the table. Girls like writers, poets. So we're chatting, and the vomit is rising in my throat at the guile of everything. And I say I have to go, and grab my things, and then I feel like running. So I'm running around the corner, and I feel better already, 'cause as long as I do it fast, everything's not full of fucking guile. And I'm running across the field, and out of the school. I get that I've got Math next, and yeah, I know that I'll regret missing that, but as long as I keep running, forget what's behind. So I'm hopping on the bus that heads downtown and I see only strange faces, and I can hear the 'thud' of guile flattening against the closed bus doors, and sliding down into the gutter.
So that's a fucking great feeling, and I can already feel myself breathing clearer even as we're flying into the smog of the city. Blurring the bridge, the library, the strip, and I should have probably gotten off somewhere, and now the library, and there's Leroy in front of the art gallery! So I'm pulling the cord and hopping down and my feet on the pavement feels good. Leroy is there, all cardigan and big hat. Matted hair and converse. He's supposed to be in math class with me right now, that salty pimp. I ain't disturbing him, though. He's mono-a-mono with some old dude who smells of bagels. Sixty-four squares in between them and a gaggle of crusty old men around.
'Let's dance grandpa, I've got threats in the air, come on take it, take it, bitch. Take the rook, it's okay, scared? Oh, you see it you crafty motherfucker, I like you, man. Alright, King B1, that's the best for you, I know you see it, just move, okay?' Leroy is slouching sideways on his seat, giving the man a hard time.
The old guy isn't phased though, he's looking at the whole board, and then with shocking deliberateness, he picks up his Queen and plants it down in a menacing square; he's not sliding it along the diagonal like a pussy; this guy's a stud.
The geriatric gaggle kibitz indistinctly, and Leroy has to stop his trash to think now. I can't figure out what to do, it's all flying over my head, but I like to watch anyways.
'You dirty motherfucker,' Leroy says, giving the old man a look of near reverential respect, 'What you say we draw this one, roger this?'
And the old man breaks into a smile and nods, and they're going over some post-mortem woulda coulda intended shit, and the gaggle breaks up, and I'm putting a hand on Leroy's back and saying in a Gregory Peck drawl, 'Shouldn't you be in class, son?'
'Cambie!' That's my name, by the way, 'I'm taking a break from class to school these punks,' he says, gesturing at the old men, 'What are you doing here?'
I don't really have a guileless answer, so I suggest a pizza, and Leroy has forgotten his question and is coming along 'cause he knows it's my shout.
So Leroy is telling me about his day of chess, and getting blown off by hot, hacky-sacking art gallery bohemian chicks. And I'm listening but thinking about the girl and what she's thinking. 'Cause my exit from school was anything but guileful. Good, I guess, 'cause she can see through that, but I'm wishing my guileless self was more dashing, or something. But I'm pretty sure that she's maybe thinking about me, wondering what's goin' on inside. Now I'm knowing that's a good thing, and I'm hoping that it wasn't my latent god damn guile that made me run and leave, but I can't think about that every time, or I'll go crazy like Oldboy.
The pizza looks pretty good, but as I'm paying the man I'm telling Leroy that I've got to run, and he's thanking me and sauntering back to the chess. I've still got my damn notebook in my hands, I never even bothered to put it back in my pack. So I'm undoing the zipper and stuffing it in to the worn pouch, and I'm noticing a weird slip of paper. Kind of rough and ripped and not mine.
Jenny 778 276 6541 Thanks for taking me home, and nice music!
So now that's in my pocket, and I know that it shouldn't mean a thing. But, truth be told, I'm feeling pretty flattered. And I'm back on the bus, looping out of the smog. I'm heading home 'cause last block is choir and I hate that class 'cause it prevents me from non-hypocritically Schwartzenegger-ing people who are 'Fucking choir boys! Fucking choir boys compared to me!'
Now the 'phones are over my ears and Simon is singing 'Kathy's Song' to me because I left that shit on, I suppose. And it's really getting me 'cause rain's started to come down which is always romantic when you're not losing digits to frostbite or trench foot, but then my heart doesn't lie in England, so the illusion is ending. But it's pretty sweet, I've got to admit, and I'm floating home in my starry-eyed headphone cloud, thinking about Julie.
User Reviews
Submitted by GREEEN (user info) at 2007-06-10 20:00:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
delicious.
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-06-10 12:07:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Submitted by cshape (user info) at 2007-06-09 22:13:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
shoop da whoop.
Submitted by beeltea (user info) at 2007-06-09 05:45:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Zebra (user info) at 2007-06-08 23:52:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Interesting style.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSS
Exceptionally Interesting Style.
IT WAS SO GOD-DAMNED
interesting.
Zebra runs with evil.
Submitted by Zebra (user info) at 2007-06-08 23:52:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Interesting style.
Submitted by cshape (user info) at 2007-06-08 18:29:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
yeah there was really no point to this.
Submitted by Deidra (user info) at 2007-06-08 17:36:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
guile
noun
1. shrewdness as demonstrated by being skilled in deception [syn: craft]
2. the quality of being crafty [syn: craftiness]
3. the use of tricks to deceive someone (usually to extract money from them) [syn: trickery]
WordNet® 3.0, © 2006 by Princeton University.
I really didn't enjoy this.
Submitted by LongestPants (user info) at 2007-06-08 17:21:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Submitted by cshape (user info) at 2007-06-08 17:04:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
lame.