The summer of 98 was when it call changed. I was just turning sixteen and all of my friends have moved away. I was alone in a small country town, rejected by the locals for what could have only been described as a failure to conform. I was an only child. My father was a police officer in the next town over and my mother worked cleaning houses for those who had more than us. We didnt have much but we had enough and each other. My two best friends moved away and changed schools. Parents sometimes make decisions that may be difficult but in the long run are good for the family. That is what happened with them. Their dad's found better jobs elsewhere and moved. So I was stuck.
Conformity in a small town is pretty much required to even fit it. I didn't. The reason for this is because I was not originally from there. We had moved when my father had to transfer to a different jurisdiction. My mother with no usable or marketable skills was able to find a small job with a local house cleaning service. Her and my father made an honest living and they were able to provide just enough. I was thrown in to this school with no one. My first day I was stared at because of my appearance. So I was a fan of heavy metal and I dressed accordingly. Megadeath and Black Sabbath were my favorite bands at the time and I pretty much wore their t-shirts every day. Back where we used to live we were close enough to a big city that had concerts. I had seen Metallica, Black Sabbath and Megadeath with my dad. Who could say that their dad did this for them? Not very many I would assume.
My first week at this school was pretty brutal. Fellow students passing by would mumble “freak” as they looked at me. I would have pencils and wads of paper hit the back of my head during class and would always be picked last for any of those stupid gym sports we had to play. Needless to say, I was not fitting it and was missing my old school a hell of a lot.
My second week I had notice two boys sitting alone during lunch. I had noticed them the following week attempting to stick up for me when one of the others would throw or say something at me. One of them was really tall for his age or too old to be in his particular grade. The other was a bid chubby but not fat. He was sort of built like George Castanza. Since sitting alone is boring I decided to say hello and thanks. I sat down with my lunch and began a conversation that would instigate a relationship that would shed the worry and doubt in being the new kid in a new school.
The next few years went by fast. We three were inseparable. My father would jokingly call us the Three Musketeers. We would have sleep overs at my house. We would go to the local movie theater and watch scary movies and throw popcorn at the screen. Life was great again. I felt like I was home instead of a stranger and a freak.
It all started changing as we got older. We started to get bored doing the same things around town. Since none of us were able to drive nor had a car we biked every where. One Saturday afternoon we biked to the school. None of us knew what we were doing but without cause or reason we just broke out a window and allowed ourselves in. We wrote swear words on the chalk boards and walls. We flooded the bathrooms. We practically un shelved every book in the school's small library. We removed the science class' dissection specimens and strewn them all over the science lab. On the following Monday the school was in total chaos. Police were everywhere dusting for finger prints. The janitor was cursing to himself as he cleaned entrails of dead frogs and the librarian was weeping for the disrespect of the dewey decimal system. All of the destruction we left behind and not a drop of remorse. I guess we felt that we didn't care. We knew that we could get caught but would it matter? We were just freaks to everyone else. But we didn't get caught. No one would ever espect the cop's son and his dorky friends.
I remembered the old Baptist church that we passed every day on the school bus. The pastor would but these stupid phrases on the marque. They would say things like “God doesn't want weekend visits, God wants forever” and shit like that. It made us angry because we felt that the pastor was trying to get members by making these “cute” slogans. Worship should be desired for it's spiritual benefit, not by its marketing department. That is why we decided to re arrange the words. But for some reason my tall friend decided to light up a cigarette near the dry grass of the church. In one swift flick the butt ignited the dead grass in a flash of orange and black. The old wooden church went up in a smoldering inferno blotting out the sky with black clouds and red embers. We were long gone when the fire trucks arrived. And we were never suspected. Who would suspect a cop's son of burning down the church?
All three of us had the same math teacher in high school. He was what one would call a self affecting narcissist. He always picked on me and my friends. He would always make us answer questions when he knew damn certain we weren't paying attention. He would get this smart-ass smirk on his face when we failed to answer correctly. He had it coming. That is when we decided that enough is enough. His car was this slick BMW. He took good care of it. We noticed this as he would drive off after school. He would slip on his sun glasses and drive off like he was better than anyone. He was known to frequent a local restaurant in the center of town. The town square of was a collection of old buildings. Most of them were renovated by either the city or the owners to fit in with the town esthetic. We found his car sitting alone in a small parking lot. Next door a building was being remodeled and some absent minded worker left a few tools out. We helped ourselves to a few sledge hammers. The weight of the tools was invigorating. We had power in our hands to destroy and destroy we did. We shattered the windows and dented the body. When we were through the car looked like it had gone into a destruction derby and lost. Before we could drop our tools of destruction, the teacher walked up. He had said a few choice words. Before he could turn on his heel and alert the authorities my friends both started swing the sledge hammers at him. They bashed him down to the ground, smashing his skull and brains amongst the pavement. He made no sound but just jerked for a few seconds.
We got maybe a mile on our bikes but eventually we were picked up. We were photographed and printed. We were thrown in to a cell with no phone call or mention of parents. My dad was the first to show. He was as white as a ghost. I knew that he would understand. It wasn't me that swung at the teacher. I only broke out the windows of his car. He wouldn't listen. He kept telling me that I was a murderer. That I had killed someone. I kept repeated that it wasn't me that it was my friends that had actually killed the teacher. With tears in his eyes my father said, “But son, you don't have any friends.”
No comments:
Post a Comment