think it’s bad, that’s actually a pretty good indication that it’s good.’
‘Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, what is it?’
Mike pauses and holds his hands out to emphasise the pause. ‘The Night.’
‘The Night? What the fuck is that?’ Jeremy hoots.
‘I kind of like it,’ says Steve.
‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Come on, we can come up with something better than The Night!’
‘Yeah? Like what?’ Mike asks.
‘Um … I don’t know … How about … Hades?’
I chip in. ‘You guys, we can’t have a name like Hades or The Night.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because, moron, people are gonna think we’re some crap metal band and we’re not. We’re not in the least bit metal. We’re way beyond metal.’
‘Ooh. Poor pussy Stan doesn’t wanna be associated with metal. Would you prefer to be associated with petals? Maybe we should call ourselves The Flowers, or, better still, The Pansies. No, I’ve got it, The Poofter Pansies. Would you like that, Stanny?’ Jeremy is fully immersed in his drug-induced shit-stirring. His beady bloodshot eyes fall on me, waiting for an answer. His mouth hangs open.
I decide to humour him. ‘That’s perfect! The Poofter Pansies – I love it!’
We all burst into raucous laughter. We laugh for so long that it ends up hurting. A light rain of tears falls on to the concrete floor while we all clutch our stomachs, trying desperately to control ourselves. Gradually, we regain composure.
‘I think it’s still too metal,’ says Mike suddenly, setting off another torrent of laughter.
Finally, we all sit back, nursing our stomachs while the shed becomes a haze of cigarette smoke.
‘Hey, Stan, I saw your old lady down the street the other day. I must say, she’s looking pretty hot,’ Jeremy says, out of the blue.
‘What the fuck? You can’t say that about Stan’s mother!’ Mike, like me, is horrified, but Jeremy knows no shame.
‘Why not? I mean, you must have noticed, Stan. Something’s going on with your mum, dude. She’s doing herself up. She’s wearing those tight little tops and putting on a bit of lippy. Your old man must be doing something right, hey?’
‘Whoa – low blow, Jeremy!’ Now even Steve is taken aback.
‘What, you mean we can’t say things about each other’s mothers? What is that stupid fucking rule, anyway? I don’t care – you can say whatever you like about my mother. If you think she’s cute, I’ll invite you over for a barbeque so you can have a nice long perve.’
‘Are you trying to drop a hint, Jeremy?’ I ask sternly. ‘Are you suggesting that I invite you all over for a barbeque so you can check out my mother?’
‘Hell, yes! What are friends for?’
7
As the summer heat lingers well into autumn, school shifts gears. Sure, there are classes and people are being educated, but that’s not the be-all and end-all of it. School is a whole way of life! When a large group of people, who all happen to be going through puberty, are brought together, the fundamental purpose of school becomes largely irrelevant. In no way do textbooks and microscopes represent the experience, as some may have you believe (the poor misguided fools); on the contrary, it’s wholly and fully defined by the interaction between the sexes. Girls! They’re everywhere! I’m captivated by the richness of their perfume and the swing of their skirts. By sunlight on hair or the puffiness of a shirt. Girls’ clothing leaves a lot to be desired – I’m regularly attempting to figure out the shapes of girls’ bodies that’re hidden beneath billowy starch-white school shirts. Where do the breasts curve out from the body and just how bountiful are they? Such considerations have me living in a fantasy world where the never-ending stream of lascivious imagery has a Vaseline-lens-like quality.
And then there’s Rhonda. She’s the leading lady in my brat pack movie. I kid myself that I’m playing the leading man, based on a cool,
‘Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, what is it?’
Mike pauses and holds his hands out to emphasise the pause. ‘The Night.’
‘The Night? What the fuck is that?’ Jeremy hoots.
‘I kind of like it,’ says Steve.
‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Come on, we can come up with something better than The Night!’
‘Yeah? Like what?’ Mike asks.
‘Um … I don’t know … How about … Hades?’
I chip in. ‘You guys, we can’t have a name like Hades or The Night.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because, moron, people are gonna think we’re some crap metal band and we’re not. We’re not in the least bit metal. We’re way beyond metal.’
‘Ooh. Poor pussy Stan doesn’t wanna be associated with metal. Would you prefer to be associated with petals? Maybe we should call ourselves The Flowers, or, better still, The Pansies. No, I’ve got it, The Poofter Pansies. Would you like that, Stanny?’ Jeremy is fully immersed in his drug-induced shit-stirring. His beady bloodshot eyes fall on me, waiting for an answer. His mouth hangs open.
I decide to humour him. ‘That’s perfect! The Poofter Pansies – I love it!’
We all burst into raucous laughter. We laugh for so long that it ends up hurting. A light rain of tears falls on to the concrete floor while we all clutch our stomachs, trying desperately to control ourselves. Gradually, we regain composure.
‘I think it’s still too metal,’ says Mike suddenly, setting off another torrent of laughter.
Finally, we all sit back, nursing our stomachs while the shed becomes a haze of cigarette smoke.
‘Hey, Stan, I saw your old lady down the street the other day. I must say, she’s looking pretty hot,’ Jeremy says, out of the blue.
‘What the fuck? You can’t say that about Stan’s mother!’ Mike, like me, is horrified, but Jeremy knows no shame.
‘Why not? I mean, you must have noticed, Stan. Something’s going on with your mum, dude. She’s doing herself up. She’s wearing those tight little tops and putting on a bit of lippy. Your old man must be doing something right, hey?’
‘Whoa – low blow, Jeremy!’ Now even Steve is taken aback.
‘What, you mean we can’t say things about each other’s mothers? What is that stupid fucking rule, anyway? I don’t care – you can say whatever you like about my mother. If you think she’s cute, I’ll invite you over for a barbeque so you can have a nice long perve.’
‘Are you trying to drop a hint, Jeremy?’ I ask sternly. ‘Are you suggesting that I invite you all over for a barbeque so you can check out my mother?’
‘Hell, yes! What are friends for?’
7
As the summer heat lingers well into autumn, school shifts gears. Sure, there are classes and people are being educated, but that’s not the be-all and end-all of it. School is a whole way of life! When a large group of people, who all happen to be going through puberty, are brought together, the fundamental purpose of school becomes largely irrelevant. In no way do textbooks and microscopes represent the experience, as some may have you believe (the poor misguided fools); on the contrary, it’s wholly and fully defined by the interaction between the sexes. Girls! They’re everywhere! I’m captivated by the richness of their perfume and the swing of their skirts. By sunlight on hair or the puffiness of a shirt. Girls’ clothing leaves a lot to be desired – I’m regularly attempting to figure out the shapes of girls’ bodies that’re hidden beneath billowy starch-white school shirts. Where do the breasts curve out from the body and just how bountiful are they? Such considerations have me living in a fantasy world where the never-ending stream of lascivious imagery has a Vaseline-lens-like quality.
And then there’s Rhonda. She’s the leading lady in my brat pack movie. I kid myself that I’m playing the leading man, based on a cool,
Similar Books
