FORENSIC EVIDENCE SUGGESTS THAT LOOPY HAS VANISHED TWIN THAT NOW RESIDES IN LAP OF LUXURY IN PARALLEL UNIVERSE AFTER YOUTH FILLED WITH EXCITEMENT AND BUXOM GALS.
these were the headlines in my mind when mom picked me up from the soccer game.
“Loopy,” she said unto me, “you really need to clean behind your ears.”
“Ma. I just finished a game. Oranges and Gatorade only please.”
She handed me a warm cream soda and drove the way she always does, hunched over the steering wheel like a vulture, doing 65 in 25 speed limit zones and 40 on the freeway, peering ahead intently at the road and not hearing a thing I say to her.
“Today I dropped a stool that spanned the length of the bowl, and it was rocky,” I informed her, sipping from my cream soda and burping immediately after every sip.
“Mmm hmmm,” she said helpfully.
“Jeremy said the word ‘Fuck’ as many times as he could. He had counted 316 1/2 by the time Ms Akita grabbed him by his ear and made him walk the plank.”
“Is that right?” she said after a pause. I always have the best conversations with my mom when she’s driving. Me, I could care less for driving. It seems too stressful. The time I tried it I got hives. I’d rather have other people drive me around anyway.
I sat back in my chair and stared at an old man in the car next to me. Now, it is true that if I stayed around after the game and hung out with the guys, I could have all the orange slices and Arctic Freeze I desire, courtesy of Rangsey’s spouse. But then I’d have to act all chummy with them, talk about who is going to be shortstop of the year, or how hot the
latest chick in the Doritos commercial is. Then I would have to pretend to be interesting, and try to say things that are funny. Trouble is, to say something funny, I’d think about it and formulate it and finally settle on the perfect quip, containing just the right amount of stinging wit, irony, and satire, but then when I’d say it, the conversation would already have moved on to gym dicks, or punching bags, or Volvos, and everyone would look at me blankly and you could see the same thought running through their faces like a row of television sets on the same station: “Loopy’s not one of us. Loopy’s trying too hard. Loopy eats fruit loops and watches Crossing Over reruns.” The orange slices aren’t worth the social stigma. I realized suddenly that I am staring at the old man and drooling with my index finger curled into my mouth like a clothes hanger, and we are stopped at a red
light and he is looking back at me with a horrified expression on his face, the kind of expression I’d imagine he’d have if I were a giant troll that waggled my 13′ dick at him and threatened to sodomize him with it. I quickly averted my eyes and sipped my soda and tried to look nonchalant while burping into my mouth quietly.
I’ve always had this problem with staring agog at things when I’m daydreaming. Like in 6th grade, when I was thinking about strategies to beat the final henchman in Kabuki Quantum Fighter, and I got sent to the vice-principle’s office for staring at Katherine Zetger’s oversized breasts, which, unhappily, I didn’t even notice in my oblivious thrall. Thereafter I was known as “Pervert” to the rest of the junior high school denizens.
Katherine’s hockey playing love interest gave me a crack in the stomach in the locker room that I believe broke one of my young developing ribs, because I always get this weird feeling there whenever I breathe too deep.