Lost Time Incident

November 10, 2004

He's the son of a bad man. Which should not mean anything on an equal societal playing field, but the fact of the matter is that he's a bad man as well. So the reason people mention the father is that there might be some genetic and some environmental factors to consider.

When we were in high school, he found a way to graft insect parts on people as a prank. Sheila Davis left chemistry class with a scorpion tail sticking out from under her shirt and she didn't notice 'til she sat on it wrong in English class.

Eric Dandler fell asleep in class and ended up with spider leg eyebrows, four legs sticking out from each brow.

Sure, he was brilliant, was our bad bad Mark Leckner. He was the sorta guy who would call you out to fight after school, but when you showed up with your bike chain, your friends, and your mad-face on, all you'd find waiting for you was the girl you had a crush on. And she didn't know you even had a mad-face. And that was it, no more love for you, now or forever, is how it felt.

Like that was your last chance and Leckner took it from you.

You'd accidentally knock into him in the hallway and before you know it, you'd come across your Spanish teacher weeping in the hallway. And she would say she was weeping because in the women's restroom, on all walls of a stall, was an epic rhyming poem in Spanish about what a fucktard you are. The language was blistering, utilized a stunning array of Mexican street slang, and yet had a rolling beauty that couldn't help but affect the reader profoundly.

And if you were a guy, there was no way you could slip in and see it. And your Spanish wasn't that good anyway. And your Spanish teacher would resign within the month and a janitor would paint it over.

But the damage was done. The bad man had struck again.

You could try not to take it personal. That was your only recourse.

You could only hide it behind second-person narration like it didn't happen to you. But it did happen. It did happen and it doesn't help much to pretend it happened to someone else.

But it was worth a shot.

These fingers type surprisingly well for being replaced with cricket legs while I slept in Pre-Calculus, third period. Yup. He was bad, but he was damn good at it. The magnificent bastard.

Posted by Michael at November 10, 2004 11:59 PM