Elricification

One:
Shovin' Right off Again
         
         AND OFF I WENT.
         The weather was at last showing signs that the end of February was near. Nearing the twenties (Celsius, of course), exactly the way Louisiana should be. I had decided to wear my new light-blue dress shirt, not only because it looked damn good on me, but because it did a halfway-decent job at keeping the breeze off me without making me sweat like Jimmy Page. This was the part of the plan that I was most confident of from the beginning. It was getting me noticed, that was for sure. . .I watched many glances--some clandestine, some not--from the females round West Monroe High School. Even from Madeline.
         Especially Madeline, the girl I’ve had a crush on for quite a while now. She was again talking to me after my alcohol-fed slip-up on Myspace, and I was again aiming to ask her out. If I did, it would be a tremendous victory for this initiative.
         Mrs. Adkins, my chemistry teacher, shows me a 73,4 average for the six weeks. I knew immediately why. She had not been at school for the previous week, and during that week, I had been hit by a serious lazy streak brought on by a lack of sleep, and did not do a drop of the work assigned. There was nothing I could have done about it now, though. I apologised to her anyway. . .chemistry is one of my best classes. Ah, fuck the gas law anyway.
         I found my thoughts again drifting to Madeline. Jesus the Prime Minister, how can such a small package be so bloody adorable? And of course she wears cool socks. I made a vow to ask her out if it killed me. I had a chance before the start of class, but my timing was characteristically a half-second too slow. Space it. But I reassured myself that more opportunities would come. Dating, making out, and spilling Frosties on her socks aside, I really wanted just to get to know her, and perhaps all of that would come with it.
         The off switch on my analytical brain was still nowhere to be found. I needed to find it, or just destroy the analytical brain entirely. A few liters of kerosene, and BOOM! Though, I could have been merely looking at my main idea the wrong way. Perhaps one can strike a balance between thinking with the brain and thinking with the crotch. Whatever the case, the constant examinations into a future as clear as a brick wall that my brain seemed to enjoy making were seriously getting annoying. I settled back, figuring that that is what happens when infinite intelligence and imagination resides up behind the eyebrows.
         My cell-phone clock read 08.39. Twenty-two minutes remaining in class. Madeline’s class is a few meters up the hall. Previous attempts to reach her have already proven that I can, given some quick movements and agility. Well, I am 192 centimeters tall, thank you. All I need to do is ask her if she would like to hang out some time, perhaps this weekend, and maybe even throw a creative twist of a Led Zeppelin classic for some flavour. It would take thirty seconds. It was what would happen afterward that never failed to worry me into caffeine gluttony. That was probably my biggest problem with asking a girl out.  I would worry about the outcome beforehand, and never actually find out the outcome. . .because I would be so freaked out about what could happen. If I could learn to not do that, my other weaknesses would turn into interesting quirks.
         Ten minutes to go. My hand shook every time I left it unoccupied for too long. There was a fullness in my throat, but I was not sure if that was related to my girl troubles or the fact that I had not had a bite to eat. That was not a good thing. My mind moved to thoughts of toast. . .with some cinnamon on it. . .grape jelly. . .that would give me a decent boost.
         The bell rings, and I depart from the classroom at best speed, setting a course for my history class. . .and Madeline. But she was nowhere to be found. Damn! I accelerate, trying to move as quickly as possible without running. But I still found myself watching her disappear into the crowd ahead while I got stuck behind it.
         Fuck! I even yell it aloud, though not because the girl I have a giant crush on walks off. My friend Layton had suddenly clapped me on the back, scaring the living crap out of me. I looked around, terrified that some teacher had heard me and was pulling a referral from his back pocket to send me to detention for the next month and a half, but no such person was there. Layton and I finished off the way to history class, discussing Jimmy Page, the shirt I was wearing, the shirt he was wearing at the ‘79 Knebworth show, and copious amounts of sweat.
         Once the customarily crappy announcements were out of the way, Mr. Perkins began to explain what we were doing today; watching a movie about the Sixties. The film--which was vaguely familiar--started off with a particularly good montage about the era, set to the great music that came with the decade. Next, it took its time with an establishing scene of a girl getting ready for a dance. Then the stereotypes come in: the strict, serious ex-military father, the supportive, stay-at-home mother, the middle son on his way to Ivy League, and the slightly dimwitted football player of an eldest son. I quickly lost interest. I got up, asked the teacher if I could head to the restroom, and stepped out into the cool air of the hallway. It felt good. My mood increases about a notch as I walk the decameter to the restroom, only to retreat that amount as the self-conscious side of me comes out with my reflection in the mirror. Shoulder-length hair (impossible to keep, really), acne scars all round my mouth, and the bright blue eyes which always manage to look stoned. I rook a handful of water and immersed my face in it. That felt good, too, so I did it again. The fullness in my throat subsided. I returned to class and started paying attention to the movie.
         The bell rings, and I go to multimedia class, but not before I see Madeline again. She gives me a high five. My heart skips a beat, and my thoughts are again on her as I plow my way through the crowd that invariably forms at the choke point that is the junction between the English, Social Studies, and Science halls. Multimedia is the one class where I can sit round and do nothing, then when the deadlines push, I can set the work aflame and get a good grade on it. I set off immediately for my favourite site, where I catch up on some very interesting developments of recent vintage.
         While I was slaving on the basics of the plan designed to increase the productivity of my actual social life, my online social life took an interesting turn. Apparently, one of the female users on my preferred Star Wars message board developed a “big e-crush” on me. Now, her Myspace headline read “Sanctimoniously Whatever that means, lol.” I raised my eyebrows.
         Speaking of Myspace, two girls from Georgia apparently found me interesting enough to add me. I think it was the Led Zeppelin videos that I had, but it was all good. They were quite interesting themselves, and my comment box was filling up with their names. One reason why I love the Internet so much: You can have a girlfriend in San Francisco and an entire clique in Georgia, without ever having visited either location. The Internet FTW.
         Lunch ended with another missed opportunity and a reminder of why I love Coca-Cola so damned much. I go to my fourth hour--Spanish class--with sweat collecting round my hair and above my undershirt, but that is precisely what I should be doing this time of year. Nothing of interest happens in Spanish class, so, after the hour is up, I walked the walk to geometry class. My timing was off yet again. Madeline was about twenty meters up the hall when I returned to class from the restroom. I could have always just waited for her, but some things evidently were not made to happen. I walked back into class, playing with my shirt sleeve and wondering what the hell was the matter with me. The clock was spinning into the red. I wondered again what would happen after I asked her, but I angrily suppressed the thoughts. FIND OUT AFTER YOU ASK HER, DAMN IT! Although, tomorrow is, after all, another day.
         
         Thursday starts. In something that very much surprised me, I spent nearly half the morning break with Madeline. We talked various subjects which had not the slightest relation to each other. . .why I was mad yesterday, DVD collections, my walking home, work, the sorts of things a behaviourist would call “teen talk.” In all my infinite wisdom, however, I did not ask her out, though the fact that I was able to talk to her freely was a good sign. I left her hangout spot at around 07.40 to see if my friend Mike had shown up yet, but he had not, for the flu was still hard at work trying to kill him. I knew how he felt. The flu sucks royally.
         The weather continued to be incredible. It had been a mite chilly in the morning, but another long-sleeve dress shirt, this one a light-grey number, kept it off me. The forecast predicts more beauty (and warmth) this afternoon. I wondered if I should hang out with Madeline at lunch. I decided to leave that for then, because there was schoolwork I did not quite understand in front of me. That took priority.
         Suddenly, I was overcame by a strange feeling. I developed a headache from nowhere and began to feel almost detached, as though I was watching a movie of myself. A few big gulps of water helped the latter, but the headache stayed. By the time I got back to work, the feeling left me.
         Time was not cooperating. Once the weird feeling was away from me, I noticed that it was only 08.30. Wow. It never fails to amuse me how time can go slow or fast, when the planet I’m sitting on moves at the same rate all the time. I knocked on my head. It did not help, but on the way to history class, I made sure to grab a drink of water. The CD player (or maybe jukebox) started to play “Moby Dick” by--who else?--Led Zeppelin. Some time ago, I decided that I would learn how to play the drums, mostly because of that nineteen-minute solo. Not that I could come close to matching John (Henry) Bonham, but it never hurt to have someone to look up to. The greatest challenge would be actually getting the drum set. . .I had plenty of air practice under my belt, so the basics of it should come rather easily.
         The hour was moving in five-minute increments, something that did well at highly annoying me. We were watching the same damned movie we were the day before. I remembered then just how much the anti-Vietnam-War protesters sickened me. Disliking a war and calling for its end it good and all, but what they did took it over the line. For Robert Plant’s sake, those soldiers went through hell for the right of the people to dislike the war they go off to fight, so it should have (and should still be) been a rule to treat them with the respect they deserved. Thank you, and goodnight!
         The movie also gave me a few good ways not to pick up a girl, unless I have had a few too many Samuel Adams Pale Ales. One of them--when the geeky guy said “I forgot my heart. . .”--might work, but I would only have used it in a serious pinch. It had also taught me to never get a girl pregnant. Ever. Fathers never fail to go absolutely ballistic when that sort of things happens.
         I groaned. The class was going by at an appallingly slow rate. The clock read 09.39 when it should be reading 10.39. . .and that was twelve minutes ago. On the movie, a bunch of the people who sickened me were trying to stop a troop train. When that fell through, they started to smoke weed. I decide that I ought to be paying attention to this. Mr. Perkins had been hinting over and over again of the possibility that I might have to turn in what I had been writing about the movie for a grade.
         As if.
         For the umpteenth time, I watched Madeline melt into the crowd, a video of me there with her, happily holding her hand, playing in my head. I took a long, deep swig of Coca-Cola, my hands shaking imperceptibly. I wondered suddenly if I would ever ask her out,  or simply let this crush yellow and dissolve into bitterness and thoughts of what could have been. However, I was a different person. We would be having no more of those April Michaels fiascos.
         I did not feel dejected as I entered Spanish class, drinking Coke at a rather relaxed rate and wondering if the administrator less than a meter in front of me would stop looking at the niceness of my shirt and notice that it was not tucked in. It was a grey number today, of the exact same style as the one I was wearing the day before. She did not notice. I did not give her any hints.
         Halfway into class, the teacher went off to make some copies, and I decide to investigate who the hell had the good sense to call me at 11.45. The number, however, did not match any of those in my phonebook, so I abandon my search.
         It was the middle of the second day of Elricification. Too soon to make any real guess on its progress, but it seems to be going well, at least the opening steps. I note that I was beginning to feel a lot better about myself, thanks to the revised dress code, and I was at last able to talk to people again. The cool shirts are exactly that. . .cool.
         Fifth hour now. I noticed that I had not shed a drop of sweat all day. My body was in heaven with the warm weather. This was what Louisiana should be like. Too bad that it was not forecasted to stretch into the weekend. It was perfect date weather. My thoughts again wandered to Madeline. I wondered what she was thinking about. Just to see her again, I asked to go to the bathroom. She was so pretty. . .like she ought to be packaged in a clear plastic box marked “NRFB.” But I would have removed her from the box anyway. . .she was just as interesting as she was adorable. I dissolved into a long, wistful sigh.
         I love Madeline.
         The teacher was babbling on about the forthcoming Spring Fling thing being held to raise money for the forthcoming Memorial Garden. I certainly wanted to go, but I would have to pay to get out of class to go, and money was not one of my most plentiful commodities. Additionally, I had not the slightest clue when the damn thing even was, so it was entirely possible that I would have the needed funds by then.
         More observations. Everyone had been getting sick lately. Every class was running a skeleton attendance, and many teachers had taken many days off since the new year started. It was crazy. . .really could make one wonder if the whole flu pandemic thing really could happen. If it did happen, I would not get it. I never get sick with everyone else. I get summer colds like insanity, but come winter and spring, I would be watching everyone else feel like ass.
         It was hilarious how I could go on and on about how something to no end, about its simplicity and whatnot, then, when it comes to crunch time, I do absolutely nothing of the sort. I kicked the shit out myself all the way to sixth hour, then banged my head against the bathroom wall. . .hard. Thursday will melt into Friday as another day of inaction. . .or maybe not. I had one more chance to make today count. I waited for the class to end.
         Tension built.
         My in-brain jukebox kicked on, the Knebworth showing of “Kashmir.”
         I began work on the damned research paper, its deadline far from pressing.
         But, Thursday would end with no question popped, no answers given, a girl with no knowledge, and a guy with no closure.
         
         I decided to dress normally today. The weather was once again cooperation with near-arousing perfection, and it was forecasted to stick into the next week, unlike before, so I elected to save the time and effort needed to button up a nice shirt and went with the power of Pink Floyd instead. Hardly anyone had been here this morning, so I spent most of it wandering the halls, looking for people to talk to, then leaned against a pillar, observing the new arrivals. Madeline was here. I had to ask her out today.
         I finished a test with a fire-raising rate. Unfortunately, I did not think that I did any of the problems correctly. Oh, well. The pen I was using ran out of ink, giving me a strange feeling of accomplishment. I had only used that pen for writing stories, my journal, and all that good writerly stuff. I made a mental note to ask my mom to get me some of these. They were nice little instruments. . .smooth, clear, and comfortable.
         With that, it was weird to note that Madeline was not the biggest thing hammering against my mind this morning.
         It was the idea that I needed a job.
         Desperately.
         My family was going down the tube financially, and I often found myself leeching off of friends when I needed money. I was hardly ever able to pay them back. . .not because I was a cheap prick, but because I was not able to. I got tired of it sometimes, though the part that would really grind my gears is my mom’s insistence that I did not need a job. But my methods and motivations were clear.
         The parents are there to take care of the needs, and this job was not for that. My wants are, after all, my wants, and as such, I should take care of them out my own pocket. And unless I have a job, there was no way in hell I was going to get a car anytime soon. The evidence was piling up. I needed to start looking again. This fucking town’s job market had completely dried up to the point I had given up at least twice since starting. I would restart my search tomorrow. . .or so I hoped.
         Second hour meant more watching the antiwar protesters of the Sixties.
         “We’re not against the soldiers, we’re against the war,” Mr. Ivy League eventually made everyone chant.
         Good. About time someone figured out the right way to protest, and I was suddenly no longer nauseated. And off Mr. and Mrs. Ivy League went with their love story. . .or not. He started to snog someone else. Precisely why I wanted to live in 1972 instead of 1968, this whole crap of antiwar protests on such a scale and violence and all that.
         And besides, Led Zeppelin did not exist in 1968.
         I looked at the time.
         Only 09.34.
         What. The. Fuck. I probably should have taken out more time for my bathroom break, because upon my return, the protesters in the movie were getting the shit beat out of them.
         I never really did anything in third hour, save surf the Internet and occasionally set fire to a video when the deadlines really encroached. Luckily, I was on friendly terms with the teacher (thank Space for showing her my writing and having good videos), so I was able to do that without any worry of being told off.
         I really like Madeline. The thought plowed into me like a Humvee (not the wannabe civilian version, but the real honest-to-God M1114 HMMWV) running me down at 100 km/h. It did not really matter now. . .all I wanted was to be near her, to hear her voice, to see her up close. . .
         . . .to see her cool socks. . .
         Once again, the day was moving like it had a broken leg. Fridays were supposed to move quickly, damn it. Though, such slowness was not such a bad thing when I was in a computer class, especially when the Internet was being annoyingly slow. YouTube videos were playing faster then they were loading, resulting in the raping of the second guitar solo in Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb.” My mood slipped a notch as I left class before the bell rang. My cell phone, however, read 11.23, so I was somewhat justified there.
         My mood slipped again. Some genius at the Coca-Cola company decided to bump the price of a twenty-ounce Coke to $1,25. A few choice words escaped me as I milled about for the required extra quarter. That pleasant little development made me worry about money even more. I think I was about half a second away from a nervous breakdown.  In an effort to keep my mind occupied, I think about Mckenzie. It helped.
         I was not so sure if I really liked the Spanish language so much. It sounded primitive and it was annoying to learn. I was a master of this language, thank you. . .not sure if I really wanted to learn another one. . .except maybe Norwegian.
         Fourth hour became fifth. I started to feel sick, almost as though I was finally coming down with something. I had been feeling really iffy all week. Headache, weird sensation on the throat. . .yeah. . .I did not think that I would be at school Monday, so I sent my mom a text message, telling her that I felt like shit and that I would like to come home.
         My mind started to jam up. I stopped writing.


Two:
Fun with Coke

         AT EVERY POSSIBLE DIRECTION AROUND THAT POINT, INNUMBERABLE people had taken advantage of the opportunity to tell me that my thing for Coke was not a healthy one. I would usually retort in some way typical of a dry-humoured person, or passively-apathetically agree with them to get the subject changed, and then I would continue on my merry way of swilling Coca-Cola at a rate comparable to a Rolls-Royce Drophead. Of course, I had my usual human highs and lows, most of which were eased by making the contents of a twenty-ounce bottle of the stuff disappear. It never occurred to me that I would experience the thing called “a sugar high.”
         Enter Friday, 23 February 2007, at 15.15, give or take a few minutes.
         I was walking along as usual with my ancient friend Luke, the Citgo station on Cypress Street hanging thirty meters ahead with a giant invisible waypoint atop it. Since I was feeling like shit on a solar panel and that she couldn’t check me out when I originally asked her—and thus needed something to appease me—my mom had offered to pick me up at that Citgo station and take me home. That was some time away, however, so Luke and I were passing the time and the meters by talking about 1-800-Dial-A-Drug. My interest in drugs had been one gleaned from the realization that most of the drugheads I knew were actually pretty decent (“decent” meaning intelligent) people, and that most of the people I knew were drugheads. Apparently, West Monroe was only interesting enough when experienced after eating a bar or two of mescaline. It was partially my intention to test this theory in experiment, but the time hadn’t really come (and wouldn’t). Hence, I knew most of the experiences and drugs he spoke of at sort of a face value, and from watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
         We crossed the street, and soon reached the end of that conversation, our theoretical enjoyment if the “mystery drug” was a bottle full of ether. That was achieved by a brief demonstration by Luke of how we would be walking when under its influence, a quavering gait that would not look out of place at a Barnum show. I chuckled and bade him good day, then went to find a place to wait for the sight of the white Buick with sunshades in the back windows.
         Some amount of time later, that particular vehicle did arrive. My mother and I went into the store to purchase various drink items, including two twelve-packs of Pepsi (at that time, it was less expensive than Coca-Cola). It would be the starting point for one of the most interesting experiences I’ve ever had.
         Most of what happened would later be recounted to me once I explained my condition to the friends I spent time with, and then asked them what the fuck happened. Those three days were all marked by frightening consumption of Coca-Cola and Pepsi, and by a frightening disparity in food consumption. As I would find out, that’s an excellent, albeit slow, way of getting pretty fucked up.
         . The next day was once complete blank, most likely spent enjoying the peculiar feeling of not recording anything to memory. Sunday was a big blank as well, until about 16.00, when I called Mike with the request to “rescue me from this tyranny.” He would do just that, and off we went on a sojourn north on Highway 143, two giant Zebra Cakes in the seat next to me and a twenty-ounce Coca-Cola in the cupholder. We commented on various topics, such as the lack of a posted speed limit, the fact that people were passing us up even though he was travelling at about 120 km/h, and where exactly the road led. As the owner of a 2004-issue highway map of Louisiana, I knew precisely where it led, and how to return safely while maximising the fun factor of the trip. It didn’t seem to satisfy his worries, though, so upon reaching the “town” of Rocky Branch, he decided to use the real estate needed to make a U-turn.
         Not if I had anything to say about it. I suggested that we head down Rocky Branch Road, which I again knew its direction, but had never actually traveled. I estimated that it would be an interesting little adventure to take this road. A source of amusement was soon found. Mike owned a 1995 GMC Sierra 2500 extended cab, an if-you-can’t-see-me-you-shouldn’t-be-on-the-road red specimen with a matching vinyl interior, four-wheel-drive, and a diesel engine. The truck, slow, ponderous, but damn can it pull stuff, filled most of the road, which used every synonym of the word “curve” as it first found its way all the way around the other “town” of Point before actually finding it. Being a country road, however, we did not have to worry about any close calls with any hapless drivers until we reached the pocket of civilization that marked the proximity of a bridge, which was closed the last time I heard of it.
         But that was nearly seven years ago. I assured him that everything would be fine, but the permanent road-closed signs were not helping my case much. A few meters before the bridge, pavement gave way to dirt that was chewed in just the right way to suggest it had been under a lot of fast-moving water not too long ago, and the bridge itself seemed to be just drying off. That bridge also could wedge itself into the road and have a meter of room to mark its deeds, meaning that if anyone came across the bridge from the opposite direction, we could . . . well, shoot an indie movie about two vehicles trying to cross a narrow bridge from opposite direction. There was also the question of whether or not the structure would even be able to support our truck’s mass. These questions thrashing about in our head, Mike decided to drop the hammer and hope for the best.
         The bridge held, and no cars approached. The road on the other side of it had been chewed up even more, and a second creek had formed, flowing idly into the other as though everything was fine. Winter still had a firm grip on everything, and I could see clearly into the woods, watching the sun reflect off the water. I also again reflected on what I was experiencing. I seemed to know that I probably wouldn’t recall most of this when I felt better. My appetite was nonexistent, and to abate my hunger (or lack thereof), I drowned it in Coca-Cola and Pepsi. I imagined that that could not be very good for me. But the feeling was much too good to stop.
         We returned home, presumably by way of Highway 15, and the blank check returned. Monday would then arrive. I thought I was over my fling with high sugar, but apparently I was just getting started. My ear was hurting obscenely bad when I awakened that morning, so badly that it completely threw off my equilibrium. I felt like my brain was underwater, with all the thoughts getting spread out and broken up. At first, I thought Madeline was not at school, then at lunch—where I again had nothing worth mentioning to eat—I saw that she was. I was coming up with horrible thoughts that day, namely that my family was the biggest thing holding me back and that I ought to just move out.
         By the end of the day, I wasn’t sure if I would make it. Of course, everyone I had talked to about my weekend assumed that I had just overdone some acid. I arrived home in a haze, discovering that I had a package in from my mentor. First things first, however. I grabbed my mom’s enormous bottle of multivitamins, and took one, then razed a bag of chicken strips. My head slowly began to clear. I noticed then that I had two Pepsis left . . . out of twenty-four. Well, that was quite an accomplishment. I’ve done better in the past, but then again, I probably consumed a commensurate amount of food to balance that.
         My mother fixed a hearty dinner of cube steak and vegetables in a nice cheese sauce. With that, my fun with Coca-Cola (and Pepsi) was over. I resigned myself to never doing that again, and concentrated on the package I received. In it was a bag of assorted Valentine’s Day candy—true to my form, it was quickly consumed—and two pairs of cool socks. My thing for socks was based round their looks (and the fact that most girls who wore them weren’t really like the other girls), but I had curiously never owned any before. One pair was an argyle pattern, a mix of green, white and some orange stitching, and the other was some urban camo with some brown in there. I tried on the green ones. There must have been something in the lining or something . . . the feeling of putting the socks on was so awesome that I removed them at once to don them again. The others worked the same way.
         I figured a little bit more weirdness never hurt anyone.