The whole cast of “Blithe Spirit” is mostly in trouble with The
Director right now because we can’t be bothered to learn our lines. Yesterday The
Director got so angry that she threw the script at the wall and screamed and
walked off stage threatening to quit. And Alex whispered “That would be amazing,
you crazy old drunk hag.” Then, he and I went to [the pool hall across the
street] and pretended to be Bobby Joe and Olga[1].
Anyway, we’re all so bad at our parts that the headmaster
gave us a day off classes to study lines. Which is kind of awesome because I
don’t have to see how disappointed Mr. M is that I didn’t do my math homework.
Anyway, I’m still on this rotten sofa, reflecting on the
personalities of the people in the play and listening to the fluorescent bulb
buzz over my head. I don’t have to go back on stage for another twenty pages so
I can just hang out here and watch the pipes.
God, I need a cigarette.
We took a break during conference period and Denise & I went
down to leave an offering at the homoerotic chapel[2]
and then we hung out in the grass by the chapel and tried to pretend it wasn’t
witch’s titty cold outside. Frank came by and tried to talk to us about knives and
Denise kept trying to make the same joke because Frank is Swiss and Swiss Army Knives.
Next weekend is the Christ School Game. I could die before
then therefore not have to watch football[3].
There might be a party at the S & G [4]house.
Denise is going to try and talk Rebecca into it. Hopefully, this time she won’t invite all
the guys from Asheville High and I won’t puke all over the back hallway again. I
will never be able to show my face . . .
[1]
My high school was located in the center of, what had been for decades, a
predominately white, blue collar quadrant of the city (it has significantly gentrified since then). There was a seedy pool hall across the
street, largely frequented by a shitkicker clientele and the occasional
boarding student looking for a place to smoke without getting busted.
I’m amazed they even let us in there, but no more so the fact that Alex never
had his ass handed to him for being an entitled shit in a polo shirt putting on
his best broad Eastern Kentucky dialect and acting out offensive Appalachian
caricatures with me over the pool table.
Have I mentioned recently that I am ashamed of my past? Because I am.
Have I mentioned recently that I am ashamed of my past? Because I am.
[2]
A small-ish bronze cast of “The Good Samaritan” set back in the alcove in the basement of one
of the Boys’ Dorms, in which both parties were naked, well-endowed young
men. Denise & I regularly left clover and pennies and paperclips in the
Samaritan’s bowl.
[3]
Our school’s historic football rivalry. Student attendance was compulsory at
the game, despite the fact that we weren’t much of a football school and most
of us couldn’t give a rat’s ass about who won. Mostly games consisted of our
side (a coed school) taunting the other side (a boys’ school) with non-sports
related cheering—“We don’t mess with sheep. Hey! —and laughing at how the other
side would actually hire out cheerleaders from a local county high school (our “cheerleaders”
were members of the boy’s soccer team wearing pre-“Braveheart” blue face paint
and girls’ field hockey kilts). That particular year, my friends received a
censorious look from the administration for leading an “On the altar 1-2-3, get
the nails, Kill Kill” cheer just before halftime.
[4]
Due to the very small degree of parental oversight and the very large amount of
readily available alcohol, my friend Rebecca’s house was known as the “Sodom and
Gomorrah” house for much of my senior year.
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