Locker Room
Philip Wohl
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2008 Phil Wohl
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Table of Contents
Locker Room 101
Renovation/Creation
The Summer Job
The Pizza Joint
Banana and Coconut
Aim Issues
PD
BINGO
Library, the Dance Team and V
The Blueprint
Edna
The Card Game
Sides of March
April Fools Takedown
There was a time not so long ago when teachers ruled the world. The principal's office would be so scary that you would almost squeeze one off in your pants just sitting on the hard, wood bench waiting for your turn.
When my parents were young and dinosaurs were roaming freely throughout the planet, school was a place where you participated or risked certain death! Not only were teachers verbally abusive at times, if parents caught wind of bad behavior than you would rather go out and play tag with the raptors than go home.
The power center of my high school shifted the day the decision came down to redo the locker rooms. What must have been viewed as a way to rid the school of more layers of odor than a 42nd Street ho', turned into a rare opportunity for a small group of seniors to strike back for years of oppression. Find a seat on the bus boys and girls, because high school never looked so good!
Locker Room 101
High school locker rooms are about as disgusting as those tapeworms that slither around your itchy dog's poop. I often wonder why the girl's locker room is so nice - everything from the bright colors to the sparkling clean floors - it is far better than the boy‟s locker room.
“Andrew Lincoln! What the hell are you doing in the girl‟s locker room?” Ms. Woodbridge yelled at me one afternoon during gym class. That bitch has trapped more beaver than Davy Crockett! To say that she lives an “alternative lifestyle” would be like saying that my science teacher, Mr. Berger, is losing his hair. I can‟t stop staring at that dudes rug! I would have passed the mid-term if his awful “hair enhancement” wasn't scurrying around the classroom gathering acorns!
I looked back at Ms. Woodbridge who, by the way, sprouts more wood than Mr. Berger, and said, “Oh, I'm just grabbing my balls.”
The shocked look on her face was priceless, as I emerged from the locker room with two rubber dodge balls supporting my apparent erection.
She yelled, “You got detention, mister!”
I pulled the wall peg out of my pants and replied, “This rolled in there and my shorts don't have pockets.”
I do have one of the most honest faces of any kid in the school, and they don‟t call me “Honest Abe” for nothing.
Ms. Carpet Muncher thought for a moment and said, “Oh, just put that stuff back where you found it. Next time come and ask me before you just walk in the locker room.”
My detention avoidance percentage has risen since that unfortunate incident my sophomore year. I have been threatened with detention 15 times over the past few years, but only served one day's worth of delinquency: that's a 93% success ratio! Sadly, once you have been nabbed and finger-printed, there is no way to get back to 100%. I tried to contest the time I put driveway sealer in the erasers, but Mr. Rodriguez would not even consider my counter defense. That's what you get for trying to play a prank on a substitute Spanish teacher that was also the class clown.
Locker rooms have always been a place where Darwin's Survival of the Fittest theory has been on grand display. This is the only room in the school, besides the bathrooms, where there is no adult supervision lurking around. That is why so many abused kids and their parents try every year, in vein, to make gym class an optional offering in schools. The president and his Physical Fitness Council usually come out with some standard bullshit statement like, “We have determined that physical activity is an important part of living a healthy life.” You know that if an abused nerd ever became president, that shit will be optional so fast that gym teachers wouldn't know what hit them.
Speaking of gym teachers... these guys and gals, and you can make your own judgment which side of the fence they fall, were probably the one's snapping the wet towels and punching kids in their more sensitive areas when they were in school. Once these academically-challenged people step into a gym they came alive. It should make perfect sense that they didn't want to leave their power center. When your career choice in life hangs between test dummy and gym teacher, the decision tends to work itself out.
Then there are the men and ladies that clean the gym and locker rooms. Boris is a Russian immigrant that does an incredible job cleaning the shiny gym floor. He uses his own mix of pencil shavings, potato peals, and Hi Karate cologne to sweep the floor clean after each day. The guy's a real pro, and it's a pleasure to watch him do his magic. In my book, he's one of the few professionals at Billy Joel High School that has earned the designation. Yes, my high school is named after the aging rock star, but I will get back to that tall drink later.
I was always under the assumption that the fluffy, red-haired cleaning ladies worked on the girl's locker room. But, under further inspection, I realized that Mr. Stanton, the head janitor, was giving the other locker room some special attention. You know the kind of attention that requires your pants firmly supporting your ankles so that you can ram your oddly shaped pole into the jail-bate clothing of non-consenting minors.
Watching Stanton was one of the most disturbing things that I have ever seen. The only thing that did more harm to my eyes and psyche at BJHS was the time when Kirby Stewart was peeing in the shower and a huge chunk of shit popped out of his ass and down his leg. That was the only time I saw Mr. Stanton in the boy's locker room with a wet mop. It was a good six months before any of us walked into that shower again.
Renovation/Creation
High school life was pretty mundane until word got around that there was going to be a complete renovation of the locker rooms. I had gone through 11 years of school, and one year of Pre-K, without even the curl of a pubic hair to distinguish my contribution. To say that I was basically invisible to my classmates and teachers, as I left the school following the completion of my junior year, would not have been an understatement.
Late in the year, the school was offering five manual labor positions to any would-be-seniors that needed a job for the summer. The school district's lawyer must have been on vacation for a few months, because the potential injury liability and negligence for the school district could have been massive. There was a flyer posted on the gym bulletin board - which was usually cluttered with flyers and posters about scratching your balls - stating that there was going to be a meeting after school for anyone interested in earning a minimum wage to help with the renovation.
Minimum wage sounded pretty good to hang out at school all summer and not be asked to turn in meaningless assignments and take forgettable tests. Before I saw the flyer in May, my plan for the summer consisted of jerking off and yanking the one-eyed cobra a little more. My parents didn't believe in summer camp, preferring to let me create my own fun with available lubricants and naked woman on the Internet begging me to do imaginable things to them.
The final school bell of the day sounded and I headed over to the gym. I expected to see a huge crowd of people waiting for the prime opportunity, but obviously most of my classmates were already flipping burgers and salting fries for the summer. There were four girls sitting on the girl's side and seven guys, including me, on our side.
Ms. Woodbridge walked out of her office and yelled, “All right ladies, which one of you is ready to get your pretty hands dirty?”
Mr. Dinkleman, the head male gym teacher and wrestling coach, had not yet made his entrance, so our attention was focused across the gym. Let me digress for a moment... Have you ever thought about the 'sport' of wrestling? I mean, I don't doubt the intestinal fortitude and drive it takes to win... the problem for me is being that close to another guy and touching him repeatedly in highly personal zones. Also, if I ever had to wrestle another guy I would layer my clothing, not wear a beefcake unitard that exposed most my upper body and let my boys flap in the breeze.
Dinkleman finally emerged from his tiny office, and glared over at us as he walked to the center of the gym floor. Our school's nickname is not the BJs, because we would have had the image of a girl on her knees blowing some guy if that were the case. No, our school's mascot is Curious George because its Billy Joel's favorite storybook character. Yeah, we're the Billy Joel High School George's... shake in fear at our very presence!
Mr. Dinkleman stepped onto Curious George's little red hat, with the little chimps likeness spread out at center court. Ms. Woodbridge stop chirping at the girls for a minute, and the two to stepped together to talk.
“We got 11 kids and only five slots,” Woodbridge stated.
“So that means we have to eliminate...” Dinkleman responded as he looked down at his fingers for an accurate count.
Woodbridge looked puzzled for a moment and then interjected, “That's six, Gene.”
Dinkleman looked down at his five spread fingers on his right hand and only one on his left and said proudly, “Yes, it's six!"
“Well we could do this the diplomatic way and draw straws, but I think the best way to conclude this matter would be...” Woodbridge said.
They looked at each other and said simultaneously, “Dodge ball."
It was the 11 of us against Dinkleman and Woodbridge, who was a fast-pitch softball player in college. I don't think any of us were prepared for the torture that would follow.
Dodge ball has always been a game of survival for me. It might be pretty accurate to say that I haven‟t been blessed with a lot of athletic talent. At 6'2” and 175 pounds, I'm just about as imposing as a basket-full of kittens. However, what I lack in physical ability I make up with irrational thought. I have become so unpredictable, that I don't even have a clue what my next thought will be. This makes it very difficult for anyone to try to sync up with my brain, and I'm sure most thinkers in the free world are grateful for that.
The gym teachers took two red dodge balls and kicked another two in the corner away from us.
“The only rule is that you can't cross this line. If the ball hits you, you're out. If someone catches a ball you throw, you're out. We‟ll keep playing until there are five of you left,” Dinkleman explained.
I thought to myself, “What the fuck? That was like, four rules, not one. What an douce bag!”
Since we had the entire half of the gym at our disposal, I decided to stay as far away from the action as possible. “Lesbie” Woodbridge would be firing bombs and I wasn't sure if my parents had decent medical coverage. Having a name like Leslie really made it easy for a guy to morph it into an appropriate, lifestyle-specific nickname.
The best athletes of the 11 students were Marjorie Braskum and Terry Powers. She played four sports and needed the job to pay for a one-week soccer camp at the end of the summer, and he was a massive football lineman and thought he would he enjoy the work.
I had never made it past the first few waves of dodge ball casualties in my life. Sitting on the sideline and watching other people get beaned in the head is directly in line with my comfort zone. It was amazing but my mind seemed to radically shift, and actually start functioning, once I saw Ms. Woodbridge curl the ball in her meaty hands and prepare to hurl it at us. In an instant, I was as elusive as a muddy pig. The first speedball whizzed by my ducking head and struck Jimmy Dalton in the face. Dalton went down in a heap and grabbed his bloody nose as he tried to sit up.
“Strike one!” Woodbridge yelled across the gym. “Go get some paper towel from the locker room,” Dinkleman said, as he threw a ball at Kim Parsons legs. “Bull's-eye!” All I saw was the number four in my head, because there were still six guys and three girls left, and four people still had to be eliminated.
Woodbridge went over to high-five Dinklemen, and he momentarily turned his back to us. Steven Parker saw the opportunity and quietly hurled the ball and struck Dinkleman in the head. The ball ricochets half-way across the gym and
Dinkleman calmly said, “Must have hit my metal plate.”
While Dinkleman took it in stride, Woodbridge seemed to have a tougher time swallowing her pride. She picked up the stray ball and finally had something she had coveted her entire life: a set of balls. Her left arm swung the first ball, which picked off two people with one shot. She then hurled the other ball with her stronger arm and Steven Parker started running. It was like watching him trying to put out a fire with a Dixie cup of water.
The ball smacked Parker in the back of the head and he crashed down to the floor. He didn't move for a few seconds, and his body twitched a bit before he regained consciousness.
“Get up you big pussy! I threw that one half speed!” Woodbridge yelled across the gym.
There were four guys and two girls left when the action picked up again. Woodbridge surveyed the crowd and muttered under her breath, “Let‟s see, who do I like the least?”
Since there were still three girls remaining, I sensed that Woodbridge would target one of them. Although she hated the male reproductive organ, she respected the power that came with peeing while standing up. Marjorie Braskum, Cindy Wallace and Jessica Booth knew they should run and hide, but only Wallace failed to move. Braskum headed for cover, and Booth quickly shuffled her feet and took a position behind me.
Woodbridge sneered and said, “Wallace it's your unlucky day.”
Jessica held onto my t-shirt, as Woodbridge loaded up her guns and fired. One ball came at us, and I blocked it with my ball. The other ball took Cindy Wallace's legs out first, and then the ball that I deflected floated through the air and hit her in the head for good measure.
The final five were set.
We all thought the drama was over until Woodbridge yelled, “Let‟s finish this!”
Jessica was still holding my shirt and I looked over at Terry Powers, who held one of the balls, and Brent McNeil, who was ready to fire the other ball. McNeil appeared so happy by being in the final five that he tossed a weak ball at Woodbridge and she caught it with her open left hand.
“Next!” she yelled.
“What are you doing?” I said looking back at Jessica.
“I have no idea” she replied.
Powers then ran up to the center court line and unleashed a flamethrower at Woodbridge. She acted like she didn't see it at first, and then she dropped the ball in her hand and caught the red ball against her stomach. The ball made a huge “POP!” sound as it made a Velcro-like stick on her chest.
“Fuck!” Powers yelled as Dinkleman interjected, “Powers that's a mile on the track right now!”
The big guy nodded his head and ran outside to fulfill his punishment for cursing. I thought that that kind of obedience from such a powerful guy could come in handy down the road.
It was me, Braskum, and Booth left and I still had no idea what the hell I was doing. All four balls were on Woodbridge's side, so she brought them all with her to the center line. Jessica and I were on the right side, and Maggie stood motionless on the left side, almost daring Woodbridge to bring it on. The temptation of the Braskum challenge was fair greater than the two sitting ducks, so Woodbridge went right at her.
Woodbridge was so fast with each ball, but Braskum seemed to anticipate her throws. The first one sailed high, the second one was wide, the third one was low and made Maggie jump, and the fourth one was a laser beam right at the middle of her body. She was still in the air, with her legs folded under her, when the ball caromed off of her knees. She almost cursed when she came down but refrained and then headed for the sideline.
“Oh shit,” I muttered under my breath so Dinkleman wouldn't hear me. All four balls were on our side and we went around and gathered them up.
Woodbridge boasted, “Hey! Could somebody go warm my Harley, because this shouldn‟t take too long.”
I was having trouble breathing out of my left nostril, and it was starting to bug me. People always say that “You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friends nose,” but I beg to differ. I knew that even a sixth grader would laugh at our combined arm strength, so we needed to change the game up a bit. Woodbridge was talking trash, and she even sat down at one point to give us a better chance. I was waiting for a better opportunity.
When she moved up and sat about ten feet from the center line, I said “Now!” and we both hurled a ball at her. Both balls bounced before they even reached her and she let them roll to the back wall.
I turned to Jessica and said, “All right. Now she thinks we can't reach her.” We strategized for a few seconds and were serenaded by Woodbridge throughout.
She said, “Talking isn't going to help ladies! You might as well hit yourself, because this game‟s gonna' be over in a few seconds!”
We turned to face her and then put the ball in our right hands. Woodbridge teased, “Ooooooh, I‟m getting nervous,” as we stared her down.
“Pick at will” I said to Jessica. We both reached up with our free hands and dug into our nostrils for dodge-ball gold.
The only time I had seen Woodbridge ever seem squeamish and girl-like, was when she noticed that someone had left a bugger on the wall near her office. It was one of the most embarrassing, feeble reactions I had ever seen by an adult.
We wiped our goodness on the balls, and then hurled them at a paralyzed Woodbridge. The woman of steel had finally met her match - the green kryptonite had dulled her senses and brought down her massive guard. The balls hit her and she rolled on the floor like she had collided with an ant colony. I turned and grabbed Jessica's right hand with my left hand and raised it in victory, as we wiped are exploratory hands on our pants.
The Summer Job
I was back at school the day after my junior year ended; being a few weeks removed from the dodge-ball conquest gave me a new perspective on my so-dull life. The last time I had won anything was when I was accidentally chosen to receive a bike in sixth grade. I got as far as the doorway with my new motor cross-style, BMX bike before Principal Davies informed me that he had read off the wrong number on the ticket. Instead of '123' being the winning number, it was actually '132' - dumb luck that I had a mildly dyslexic principal with an anal secretary.
Ms. Woodbridge didn't know whether to smile at me, or run away, when she saw me after that day. It's not as if I picked my nose walking through the hallway between classes, because this was a one-time public display of snot picking. At least it was a one-time witnessed public display that I was aware of.
The grim prospect of shoveling shit into a dumpster all summer, was overshadowed by getting to spend more time with Jessica. The last time I had kissed a girl was eighth grade recess when Carl Spillman dared me to plant one on Angela Spumenko. I managed to complete the task, but I also got kicked so hard in the balls that I couldn't jerk off for a few weeks without tearing up from the pain. Being 13 and not being able to spank the monkey was about as painful as being 17 and never seeing a real girl naked.
I had talked to Jessica a few times after our synchronized picking, but the conversation never made it past, “Hey.” I really suck at trying to engage people in conversation. I watch enough TV to know what to say, but the words never seem to make it to my lips. It's probably a good thing that I don‟t start conversations by saying, “Yo dog, what's up?” or “Hey, playa'.” I can honestly say that I have never been the shiznit, and I‟m not really sure if that is something I would want to be.
We were told to report to the gym at 7:30 a.m. the first morning. School had just ended the day before and we were all a little groggy on that Thursday. I got there first, and one of the construction guys slapped a $20 bill in my hand and said, “Go ride your bike and get a box of donuts and a couple of large coffees.”
I wasn't really sure how that guy name Zeke knew I had ridden my bike to the school, instead of driving my own car? But I nodded and went outside where my ride was chained to the bike rack.
Twenty minutes later I was back, and gave Zeke his $1.20 change and the bag of coffee and donuts. He reached into the box and flipped me a lame coconut donut, not knowing that I had already eaten three donuts on the way back. I looked at the donut as if someone had wiped their ass with it, so Terry Powers charged me and said, “Dude, you gonna' eat that? I need to bulk up before the season starts.”
I'm not sure if an audible sound even breached my lips, but Powers had devoured the donut in two gargantuan bites. I would hate to see the convoy his mother needs to go food shopping.
It was also feeding time for the construction guys, who were probably the winners of every popularity category when they were seniors in high school. You can take the boy out of the school, but you can't take the school out of the boy - or can you? These guys were the football team of 1988. Ah, the stories they could tell about atomic wedgies and putting fart spray in people's lockers. That's almost as funny as the time they lit some dog shit on fire on Old Man Johnson's porch and he put it out with his feet, but the sparks lit the house on fire and burned it to the ground.
I really didn't know what to expect from the summer working experience, but knew that it would be memorable. When I first saw the 'help wanted' sign in the gym, I knew it was something I should do because: (a) I never usually look at signs on the jock board, and (b) the town I live in, Grants Parkway, is about as dead as a two-week old goldfish floating on a kid's dresser.
There were no camps that I knew of that took kids for free, so my dad said, “Go out and get a job.” I'm not a camp kind of guy, anyway.
The other three people, Brent, Jessica, and Maggie, looked at me as if I had left them out of my will. I smiled at them as I flipped a bag at them that I was hiding behind my back. “Chocolate Crullers!” Brent said as he dove into the bag. Who doesn't like Chocolate Crullers? It's about as safe a choice as hot dogs or pizza. I know, some people are allergic to chocolate, or tomatoes, or air... Do everyone a favor, get a life already and come out of that plastic bubble you live in!
It was about 8:00 a.m., and I would have been sleeping if I were at home. The sugar rush from the donuts helped us all stay awake, until Zeke came out with either white sugar powder or some sort of protein-based substance on his face. He started talking, and I started motioning to him that he should clean that shit off his face.
“We have to get started as soon as... why the fuck is this kid interrupting me and rubbing his face?”
One of the other workers, Bruce, took a tissue out of his pocket and dabbed it on his tongue before he attempted to clean Zeke's face.
“What the fuck are you doing? Do I look like your illegitimate son?” Zeke yelled.
Zeke went back to instructing us, “OK, where was I?”
I said, “You were talking about getting started...” and I continued under my breath, “wiping that cum off your face.”
“Did you say something else?” Zeke asked as the other students restrained their laughter.
“I'm sorry. I said this is going to be a great place!”
“Oh okay, then.” He continued, “We have about six weeks to complete both locker rooms before the football season begins. We'll start with the girl's locker room and finish on the boy's side. Any questions?”
Brent picked up his hand and asked, “Could you tell me what time lunch is, because I have to take my allergy medications?”
“We eat at 11, Poindexter,” Zeke replied in a mocking tone that he had perfected over the years. Some of his buddies started laughing.
“My name is Brent,” he said quietly, almost to himself in a defeated tone.
“Somebody get Myron a Kleenex, and let's get to work!” Zeke shouted.
I wasn't really sure why they had to redo the girl's locker room? That shit looked so new that I knew there must be some ulterior motive for these guys. If I was a conspiracy theorist, the construction workers must be running some peep show ring, where they can get some cash off the books.
We walked into the girl's locker room and Terry Powers said, “Wow, this place looks a lot different than our locker room.”
Maggie said, “You've never been in our locker room?” Powers shook his head, “No.”
“Hell, even Brent‟s been in here before,” Maggie stated.
We all looked at Brent and he blushed. “McNeil, you little perve,” Jessica said.
Zeke took the lead, “We've had a recent outbreak of mice in the locker rooms. Once we do a little demolition, then we'll bomb the place and work on the guys side for a few days, while the fumes go away.”
At first I was a little grossed out at the thought that I would be working side by side with little furry mice. But, when I thought a little deeper, there were obviously bigger rats in the equation. My thoughts had always been restricted to junk food intake and potential material to pleasure myself. While these are common thoughts for any teenage boy, they won't get you anything more than a lazy brain and a tougher-than-leather palm.
I was pretty tired after that first day, and immediately fell asleep when I got home. Okay, first I ate a few cans of Beef-a- Roni and Spaghetti-Ohs, and gulped down some Mountain Dew - my body was so used to caffeine that it really had no impact on my weary state.
My dreams were so vivid and clear that night that it was easy to make a blueprint for my plan of action. The first thing I remember dreaming about was undressing Jessica in the girl's showers. Must have popped some wood while I was dreaming about that hot and steamy session. As long as I wasn't dreaming about Woodbridge and her closet-full of strap-ons, it was all good.
After I got finished dealing with Jessica's moist situation, the dream took a more business-like turn. There was a lot more to the locker rooms than what appeared on the surface. There were secret passages and tunnels that gave the janitors and other school personnel access to the girl's locker room. I also saw Principal Lowery say to the janitorial staff, “We need to revamp the locker room so we can rewire the cameras for the pay-per-view feed.”
The dream must have gone on and on for hours, because the rest of it involved me taking control of the school and gathering a bunch of students against the motherfuckers that had the power. When I woke up, I knew that I had to take advantage of, and fill any openings, including Jessica's.
It was 5:00 a.m. on Friday, and I couldn't wait to get to work! This was the earliest I had woken up since my parents threw me in the car to take a lame trip to Disney when I was a kid. The fact that I still got 10 hours of sleep, being that I went to sleep at 7:00 p.m. the previous day, did not escape me.
One of the workers told me that the janitors opened the building at 6:00 a.m. every weekday during the summer. I took advantage of the time by using Zeke's $20 to duplicate my purchase from the previous day and, instead of eating a few donuts myself, I pocketed the few extra bucks for myself, just as I had done the previous day. I arrived at the school at 6:45 a.m. and parked my bike near the front of the school so no one would see that I had arrived. The gym was near the back entrance to the school and I slipped in through one of the doors, so I could check things out.
I snooped around the girl's locker room and basically came up as dry as the desert. I was ready to walk into the gym, until I heard some voices come from behind this black metal door. I had walked right past the door, assuming it was a ball or storage closet.
Zeke emerged with Janitor Dale and said, “We'll have to reposition this closet so it isn't so visible. Principal Lowery told me that Woodbridge was questioning him about what was behind the locked black door.”
Janitor Dale asked, “What did he tell her?”
“He told her that it filled with janitorial supplies and other school supplies,” Zeke answered.
“There aren't many supply closets with two-way mirrors and quarter slots,” Janitor Dale joked.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing, as I slipped out into the hallway and through the school to get the donuts and coffee out of my locker. It was 7:25 and I rode my bike to the back of the school and locked it up on a rack near the gym. The coffee was still hot and the donuts were fresh as I handed it over to Zeke.
He looked down at me and said, “You got my fuckin' change, piss boy?”
I handed the Neanderthal $1.20 and replied, “Yes, boss.”
Zeke was 6‟5” and weighed about 280 pounds, but less than a pound of that must have been his puny brain. He had the counting skills of a pre-schooler and the beer gut of a pregnant woman. Taking advantage of under-aged girls was the kind of illegal activity that should have been left for the male students of Billy Joel High School. These guys were upsetting the delicate balance of our pubescent experience, and I was just the guy to put a screeching halt to it.
When the rest of my co-workers arrived, I reached into my backpack and pulled out their bag of free donuts. I quickly realized that they way to Terry‟s brawn would be through his stomach, so I gave him the three donuts that I would have eaten. I could tell that they all liked the fact that I was getting over on Zeke and his club-carrying, knuckle-scraping pals.
That day we focused on knocking down all of the main-level lockers, while the bulk of the demolition crew focused on the downstairs showers. There was no doubt in my mind that these bitches were going to install a multitude of tiny cameras to capture what they thought was some good clean fun. Don't get me wrong, I would love to look at some of Billy Joel High‟s finest as they lather up. The problem is that the line of “adult” abuse seems to be going deeper and deeper. Maybe that's why I have always been so disillusioned at school - come to think of it, I have also been pretty lethargic at home too, but that's another story.
While the five of us had received instructions on how to dismantle the lockers, I could hear a lot more talking than banging down in the basement. When I was 10, I sent away for a Spy Ear from the side of a box of Cracker Jacks. It had been years since I used the skin-colored earpiece to eavesdrop on the ladies talking about sex in the hair salon. Those whores had been with more guys than they had used cans of hair spray. They used to talk about all these things that I was clueless about, and I remember this one conversation...
“I went out with Bruno last night,” Patty said.
“Yeah? Where did that scum bag take you?” Kathy inquired.
“Well, we took his GT and went down to the beach,” stated
Patty.
“Well I'll be Sandy Vagina! Don‟t tell me... did he splurge on
dinner or did you just suck his cock first?”
Patty started laughing, “Well, first I sucked his cock... girl's
got to get a little protein in her diet.”
They slapped hands. “Then he took me to The Burger Shack after we fucked under the boardwalk.”
“Sounds like a dream date to me. Maybe you guys could double with me and Donny next time?” Kathy said.
“Hey! The last time we doubled I wound up with a sore ass and a broken heel.” Patty replied.
“Yeah, my ass was pretty sore, too...” Kathy agreed.
Time and the Internet have given a more clear perspective on that conversation. I know longer think that the girls fell off the motorcycles and hurt their butts. The protein thing is still a bit confusing, but I guess that women are always trying to eat healthy.
The one positive thing I have done in my life is spend time with my dad in his basement workshop. We have made all sorts of things, from birdhouses to rain gauges, but lately we have been dabbling more in electronics. My dad is about as paranoid as a chain-smoking burnout - he always thinks the government is
watching our house. I guess the FBI meets daily about my junk food intake and porno selection.
My dad, his name is Aaron Lincoln, invented this device that can jam any signal within a half-mile radius and replace it with a different feed. With my menial help, he has perfected it for audio, video, and computer code. Those five years he spent in the Army as an intelligence officer in Korea and in the states, really honed his ability to deal with the enemy. It took him about 20 years to return to his intelligence roots, for fear that the government would detect his activity.
My dad probably has enough equipment and parts down in that basement to start a small intelligence army. I have become quite proficient at being able to duplicate his inventions, and this should come in handy as I begin to infiltrate the construction gang's nefarious activates. Those good old boys are going to go down hard!
I took a position near the stairway that went down to the basement, but I was careful not to make my intentions obvious. By working on the next-to-last row of lockers, I let Terry Powers take the most conspicuous position of power. The ex-football players would never suspect that Terry would go against “one of his own.” Powers was going to help me without even knowing it... at least that was my initial plan. He probably wouldn't consciously go against the other football players with the season only a few months away, so I obviously had to retrofit the target for the various members of my crew.
My Cracker Jack Spy Ear was working like I was downstairs with the men, but it was also picking up Jessica talking to Maggie in the bathroom. Focus, Lincoln!
“We should put cameras in every shower head and we could also put a bunch in the lights throughout the entire locker room,” Zeke said.
Then I heard Jessica's voice stream through, “Do you think that Andrew likes me?”
I started to sweat, and all of the color in my face disappeared like it was escaping down the drain. I sat down on the bench for a minute and Terry said to me, “You all right, Lincoln?”
I took a deep breath, removed my good ear and replied, “Yeah, I'll be all right with a little help from my friends.”
He looked at me and asked, “What do you mean?”
“Let me take you out for a slice of pizza later and I‟ll explain everything to you,” I stated.
He nodded and said, “You got it.”
I have to admit that using a sledgehammer and propelling all of your frustration and anger at an object was very liberating. It took me twice as many shots to demolish than Terry, but the muscle-less Brent McNeil took twice as long as me. We had to wear gloves to protect ourselves against the sharp metal edges of the lockers, but I took mine off because my hands were sweating.
About two minutes later, my right index finger was bleeding - mind you, the blood wasn't spurting out but it wasn‟t drying up either.
Brent looked over at me and said, “Jessica has the first aid kit over near her.”
So I walked over to the other end of the locker room, where Jessica had a white kit in her hand with a red cross emblazoned across the top of it. She examined my finger and then looked me in the eyes and said, “It doesn't seem that we have an alcohol wipe in here, so I guess I'll just improvise.”
The action slowed as Jessica opened her moist, full lips and moved her mouth toward my finger. I was paralyzed from the brain down, as she took my finger in her mouth like a porno star. She moved her head up and down like she was sucking on my dick, and when she swirled her tongue around my finger I nearly passed out. “There, all better, “ she said as she smiled. She looked down at the bulge in my pants and started giggling.
Zeke's voice could be heard as she quickly wrapped a band-aid around my lucky wound.
“Where is Lincoln?” Zeke yelled across the locker room as he ascended from the basement.
McNeil said, “He‟s over there, sir,” as he pointed across the locker room.
I was a dead man! No matter how hard I tried to think of wrinkled, old flesh, my erection would not subside. I started sweating as Zeke approached me.
He looked down and yelled, “What the hell is going on in here? Lincoln, what the hell is that?” I never looked Zeke in the eye in fear that I would catch the mind-numbing disease that he had.
I started saying, “That's an erection sir,” but all that came out of my mouth was, “Ugh.” Jessica's potent oral massage had incapacitated me to the point that I could barely speak or move.
Zeke continued his rant, “How many times have I told you guys to not hang the tool bag from the lockers?”
From Jessica's angle, it appeared that the tool bag was dangling from the tip of my penis when, in fact, it was swinging from the handle of a locker.
“It won‟t happen again, Mr. Zeke,” Jessica said in my defense.
He smiled at Jessica like he had seen her naked and replied, “Okay, little darling.”
I quickly came to my senses, as Jessica looked at me with a confused expression. Zeke went back into the basement and Jessica exclaimed, “What the fuck is going on here?”
Maggie interjected, “Yeah, that guy gives me the creeps.”
“I was going to buy Terry a slice at The Pizza Joint after we're done here, so why don‟t the rest of you join us and I'll try to explain,” I said.
“You still going to buy me that slice?” Terry asked.
“Yeah, Terry. That slice has your name all over it,” I stated.
The Pizza Joint
After a few more hours of demolition and random erections, we left the school and I wheeled my bike, as the others walked the quarter-mile. Every group needs a common cause to bind together, and our manual labor quintet was no exception.
We sat at a big round table in the best pizza place in town, The Pizza Joint. It must have taken Terry about two bites to finish his complimentary slice and the rest of us were completely in awe.
“Wow, Terr. You eat everything with that much gusto?” Maggie asked.
Terry raised his eyebrows and replied, “Wouldn't you like to now, Maggs?”
She nodded her head and said, “Bring it on, big guy.”
“Can you guys go get a back seat already?” Jessica interjected.
“Just like you serviced Andy‟s finger?” Maggie shot back.
“You slut!” Terry said pointing at Jessica.
“Shame on you,” Brent added as he rubbed his index fingers together.
I added, “All right. All right. Leave my extremely satisfied finger out of this.”
“So what‟s the good word, Abe?” Terry asked.
It was no stretch to nickname a guy with the last name of Lincoln, Abe, but I took it all in stride.
I looked around the table and then started talking, “Do you guys ever notice anything odd around our school?”
McNeil answered, “Like the fact that our school is named for an aging, bloated rock star that crashes his car into moving trees?”
We all started laughing and then Terry asked, “How much did he put down to get his name on the school?”
Jessica answered, “My mom told me it was $5 million.”
“I heard $10 million,” Maggie chimed in.
“Seven,” I said.
“You‟re all wrong!” Brent confidently stated.
Maggie challenged him, “How the hell do you know?”
Brent took off his glasses and cleaned them with a paper napkin. He started nodding his head and responded, “You'd be amazed at what you kind find when you hack into the administration's database.”
Our collective jaws dropped to the floor, as we gained a new level of respect for the often-abused McNeil. “He paid for the new football field, gym, and auditorium. The total price tag was $1.2 million.”
“That‟s it?” Terry inquired.
“No, he also kicked in another $800,000 to have the school named after him. I read one memo between an administrator and Principal Davies. Davies was the drummer of Billy Joel's band, The Marlboros, when they were in high school. The two are still drinking buddies and Davies said in the memo that “Billy cut me a check for $2 million so we could do some things around here.”
“What was the name of the high school before BJHS?” Jessica asked.
“In 1984, before the name change, the school was called Richard M. Nixon High School. People would always call it Tricky Dick High School, or just Dick High School, so the BJ name change was at least a couple of moves up the name chain,” Brent proclaimed.
“What the hell is going on in the school now, Mac?” Powers asked.
A broad smile spread across McNeil‟s face, because he had never been given a positive nickname before. His brain was momentarily jello, so he deferred to me, “Why don't you ask Andy? He‟s the one that brought us all here, T.P.”
Powers looked sternly at Brent and replied, “Do I look like something you wipe your ass with, McNeil?”
“Sorry, Terry,” Brent said in a depressed tone.
I looked at Terry, asking him to give Brent a break. “That‟s okay, Mac, Terry said.”
The smile returned to McNeil's face as he continued eating his slice. “You can't believe some of the shit that is going down in our school. The kind of stuff they are doing will never be listed on a memo, or even talked about beyond the locker rooms. What I am about to tell you must stay at this table. If we are going to be successful, and really enjoy our senior year, then our conversations must be air tight.”
“Air tight?” When did I start talking like that? I barely even had a basic command of the English language before I started this summer job. I went from slacker to CEO in a matter of weeks. The growing sense of power is a real head rush, though.
“All right we agree,” Maggie said as everyone nodded their heads in agreement.
“Do you ever feel like someone is watching you at school?” I asked the group.
“What do you mean, like in class?” Jessica asked.
“Let me put it this way... if you were a dirty old man, what would you want to be able to see?”
“Holy shit! I thought I heard something moving in the shower one day!” an outraged Maggie exclaimed.
“Do you mean the shower itself, or the shower head?” Jessica asked.
“I was washing my face in the shower after soccer practice, and I heard a buzz and felt a vibration when I put my hand against the wall,” Maggie explained. “I thought it was just the pipes of the shower being temperamental.”
Terry‟s face turned whiter than usual and he muttered, “Fuck me.”
“What‟s wrong, big guy?” I asked him.
He sat with his head down and his eyes virtually burning a hole through the floor. Terry waited a few seconds and then responded, “I have also heard that sound and felt the vibration in the shower.”
“I haven't,” Brent interjected.
“Well, there isn't such a high demand for circus freaks,” Maggie joked.
“I'm not a circus freak!” Brent yelled as he got up from the table and stormed off to the bathroom.
I looked at Maggie and then the other three people at the table, and sternly said, “Guys, if we‟re going to make this work we can't be fighting amongst ourselves.”
Maggie‟s first instinct was to challenge me, but she somehow resisted the temptation. “It's not going to happened overnight.”
“Well, it has to. We have to get our shit together, unless you all want to be the subject of some strip and shower show,” I stated.
Brent walked back to the table and he looked at me and said, “I have to go now.”
I had a good feeling that he would be leaving, but hoped that something would happened to preserve our bond.
“Hey Brent, before you go I have to tell you something,” Terry Powers said. Powers then motioned for Brent to come over to him, like he was about to reveal a huge secret.
Powers then whispered in his ear, “Dude, you see that girl over there by herself and reading a book?” Brent looked over and nodded his head. “Don‟t look over there! Play it cool. That girl has been looking at you since we walked in here. Do you know who she is?” Brent nodded his head that he knew her.
McNeil was about as experienced with girls as he was familiar with failing a test.
Powers continued, “Go over there and ask her out.”
McNeil was resisting, so Powers kept moving forward, “Hey, she's reading the same textbook that you have.”
“She's my lab partner in chemistry class. Her name is Evelyn Palco.”
“Go over there and start the conversation about chemistry, and then ask her to the movies.”
A few more times around the point and then Brent got up enough courage to take the long walk off the short pier. We tried to act as disinterested as possible, but that was proving to be harder than one of Mr. Porter‟s Geometry exams. I could see the graffiti on the wall - it was fairly obvious that we were becoming coupled - and the importance of keeping our hacking wizard happy seemed to be growing with importance each day. Now that I had gotten my finger fellated by Jessica, and the two athletes Terry and Maggie appeared ready to go at it at the next whistle, symmetry seemed to rule the day.
I didn't know at the time that Evie Palco was a science whiz, who had won many statewide science contests. That sly dog Brent worked his magic and, within 15 minutes, he and Evie were heading over to our table. I could tell that McNeil had clued her into what we were doing, and how she could help us.
Brent confirmed my suspicions when he spoke, “Guys, this is Evie. Evie this the guys.”
One-by-one he introduced us to her and then he said, “I couldn't help it - I told Evie what was going on.”
Before we backtracked, and everyone started to scratch at Brent, I interjected, “Hold on. Before we jump all over him... Evie why don't you tell us what you can bring to our special project.”
We all expected some weak, feeble answer, but the girl came out with guns blazing. “You guys ever blow up anything really big?”
“Like what?” Terry asked.
“Like a building?” she responded. It was obvious from that moment that we would have a six-person core, with one very volatile individual on the ready in case we needed a devastating chemical reaction.
It was Friday night, so I invited everyone back to my house to play poker - at least that was the official invitation. Jessica's cell phone was passed around and the alibis were flying around. I heard everything from “going to my friend Kerry's house, to "do some homework” to “going to the library to work on a project” to my favorite, “lifting some weights for a few hours,” which was Terry's way of placating his over-involved dad.
We all had our ways of telling our parents what they wanted to here. I think my mom was just happy because I showed some signs of life for a change. The last time I had a friend over my house was at least four years earlier, when Billy Walters stopped by to sell candy for a Boy Scouts fund drive. My mom wound up buying a dozen boxes of candy, as part of a bribery scam to get Billy to watch TV with me for a few hours. He actually stayed for 40 minutes and then slipped out when my mom left the room to get us some Oreos and milk.
She came back in and asked, “Where did that nice Boy Scout go?”
I looked up from the TV for a minute and said, “Who?”
“Who,” exactly! Friendship had been an overrated concept over the past few years when video games and Internet porn had consumed most of my time. I was about as familiar with a real conversation than I was with the inside of my SAT study book. The seal on that baby is still airtight! I needed to show everyone that we had the capability to rule the school. With my father's tutelage, and the collective capabilities of our group, the transmission of every electronic device would be tuning into our frequency. But, in order to take control, we had to work fast before the new walls were built. Once the devices were sealed, there would be little chance to alter the horrific outcome.
When we arrived for work the following Monday, an obvious opportunity made its presence known. Before we even had a chance to sit down, Zeke bellowed the following announcement:
“We expect to finish the demolition phase of the girl's locker room by lunch today. We will then shift over to the demolition of the boy's lockers, while the girl's locker room is fumigated. He reiterated, “We've had some rodent problems in the past and this process should take a couple of days to complete. Let's get to work!”
I thought right away that there were definitely “rodents” in the basement of the locker rooms, but they weren't of the four-legged variety. I turned to my group and said, “We have to get in that basement.” Everyone nodded and our collective brain waves threw as much sparks off as a firework's show.
The fumigation trick was obviously a diversionary tactic designed to give the dirty old men some privacy. I even doubted the fact that they would actually spend money on administering the toxins. “If they spray some nasty fumes to cover up their operation, then we have to be prepared,” I said to the troops.
That afternoon I said, “Hey Brent, can you pull that box out from under my dad's work desk?”
Brent bent over and then had a little trouble balancing once he lifted the box from the floor. Terry quickly noticed he was struggling and ran over to help him. It was amazing for me to see such teamwork from a crew that was a bunch of individual's only days earlier. Before we got into this mess, I'm sure that Terry would have let Brent struggle and then fall on his face and be amused in the process.
My dad was an expert at intercepting signals, capturing them, and then scrambling the message in any way he saw fit. Our job would be to wait until the smut crew installed their cameras, and then piggy back my dad's devices so we could manipulate the signal. We also had some other plans for ways we could convert signals into usable leverage.
Banana and Cocoanut
Once the work week started, we were immediately shuffled over to the boy's locker room to begin the demolition process. It was awful quiet in the gym for the next two days, as most of the “adult” crew was fixated on the girl's locker room. We hardly saw any of them until it was time to go home each day. It was Tuesday at 4:00 pm and Zeke and the boys were loud and obnoxious as the walked through the gym.
Zeke yelled, “Hey, Lincoln Logs!”
I came out from the boy's locker room and he flipped me a huge set of keys - the 30 keys were side-by-side with a sharp bottle opener, which instantly cut my hand.
“Lock up tonight! We're going to Mulcahey's for Happy Hour!”
Happy hour? It was Tuesday afternoon and these retards with limited brain cells, were already drinking until they fell down.
I also noticed that Zeke struggled to pull off his wedding band when the guys left the gym. Another guy named Billy pulled a tube of K-Y Jelly out of his pocket and said to Zeke, “Time to be single again, bro'.”
Zeke yelled at him and said, “What the fuck are you doing with a tube of sex wax in your pocket? You haven‟t gotten laid since your wedding night!”
Billy responded, “Yeah, none of us have fucked our wives since our wedding nights. I think we only put up with their shit so we can go out, have fun, and then have someone cook us a meal and clean up the house! Just like living with mom but with occasional sex and a few kids!”
The thought of using the words “mom” and “sex” in the same sentence put an instant chill up my spine. That's about as gross as seeing a woman lift up her arms to reveal growth that rivals any wild jungle. I'd rather get head from one of the toothless lunch ladies than use the words “sex” and “mom” in the same sentence. The only exception to that rule would be saying to my girlfriend, “I hope my mom doesn't catch us having sex.” I feel less creepy already!
We had stashed our equipment in the trunk of Terry's beaten up Ford pickup. The car was a hand-me-down of a hand-me-down from his cousin. Terry didn't give a crap because he was like any other teenager, and was just happy to be out of the house and have some wheels.
Since all of the workers had left for the day, the six of us were the only people left in the whole school. The janitors had a reduced work schedule in the summer, and were in the building between the hours of eight and three. It was a weird feeling at first having the run of the entire school but we got over it real fast because we had a lot of work to do.
Our first priority was installing the router switches in range of both the showers and lights. The great thing about my dad's devices were that they could be positioned anywhere in the targeted area. The actual placement of the devices was a little trickier than I had anticipated. I almost consulted my dad on what he thought, but the sane part of my brain told me that probably wouldn't have gone over too well.
“All of the walls, including the shower walls, are going to be replaced,” I said as I looked around the room. “Are there any surfaces in this room that aren‟t going to be replaced?”
There was a few seconds of silence and then Brent said, “The ceiling.”
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