textfiles/magazines/FUCK/fuck0437.txt

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=   F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.   =
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                     Death: He Deserved It
                     ---------------------

Fact or fiction.  I think it's fact.  But it's been so long I can't
remember the details.  Actually I know it's fact, I'm the main character
so I guess I'll tell it in the first person . . . I don't know.  I'm
feeling a bit weird right now.  I'm sick like a dog and I've been
staring at one of various flickering computer screens for about ten
hours today.  There was no one at work today to slack off with.

Ok, here we go.  Strap 'em on if ya got 'em.  I'm going to be your
narrator.  Think of it all coming from a disinterested and tired voice. 
Very long pauses for the periods.  Slow, but not monotone.  Anyway . . .

---------------

I was 17, a high school senior, and labeled a rebel by classmates and
teachers alike.  I wasn't the Jimmy Dean rebel I was the outcast, the
miscreant.  I wasn't a sex symbol.  I'm not now.  I won't ever be.  I
had four friends throughout my highschool career and one girlfriend.  I
didn't choose it to be, it just was.  I didn't think about it until
later in life.  It was queer but not uncommon.

1:25pm, 7th period law class.  Our regular teacher was out.  We had a
substitute.  Poor diminutive woman that she was I refused to make sport
of her.  She was below my contempt, or outside of it.  I'm not sure.  I
just didn't feel anything for her.  Everyone took advantage of her,
everyone but me and a few of the goody-two-shoes.  I had other things on
my mind.

They were working her over pretty good by the middle of the period.  She
was intensely flustered.  I dropped my pen.  That pen fell predictably. 
9.8m/s squared is like that.  My life fell predictably.  Shit is like
that.

I reached down to scoop my pen off the floor and the damnedest thing
happened; my ass-length hair managed to tangle itself in between the
bars of the desk.  Of course, I knew none of this until the desk was
toppling onto the floor, replacing the pen, and taking a few ounces of
hair with it.  I cursed under my breath and lifted the desk back up and
began gathering my scattered books.

A few chuckles rose from the front of the room.  In minutes the
substitute teacher rose from her seat and stalked back to my desk.

"Why did you throw your desk," she demanded in a near hysterical voice. 
Remember, everyone had been taunting her continuously for the 20 minutes
prior to this.

"I didn't," I stated flatly.  Which, incidentally, is how I stated most
things back then.

"You did too.  I saw you do it."  

Now she was getting hysterical.  "Get out! Go to the office.  NOW!"

I didn't move.  "I have work to do."  I sat back in my chair and started
writing again.

"I said get out!  Get up and out of this room, NOW!"  She was clearly
hysterical now.

"No.  I have work to do," I stated flatly.

"That's it," she mumbled as she stalked to the door.  She opened it up
and stalked out of the room.  The class all turned from me to the door
the same look of bewilderment on all of their faces.

Through the door voices could be heard echoing through the cavernous
hallway.  The room was silent.  

I continued working.

"Which one?" I heard the baritone voice demand.

"mumble mumble," she replied.

I looked over at them through my hair.  

[I liked my hair long.  I liked it long in the front so it covered my
eyes.  When I was younger, 7th grade or so, a I walked up to a girl and
'asked her out.'  She denied me outright, a look of shock and
indignation on her face (I remember it vividly) as she then proceeded to
tell me that I had chicken eyes.  I never forgot that.  I never forget.]

"You," he said pointing at me, "stand up and come over here."

"I have work to do," I stated clearly.

"Get over HERE NOW I SAID!"

I turned to my paper and began writing again.  I don't like it when
people yell at me.  I never did and I never will.

"Son, pay attention to me when I talk to you!  Get over here now!"

"What is your problem," I asked, "People are trying to do their work
now." This was untrue by now because everyone was totally engrossed by my
conversation with Mr. Millar.  The last sentence must have shocked
everyone.  I hadn't said more than ten words consecutively in my whole
high school career to anyone (my girl friend excluded).

"What's going on here son," he asked me an a slightly gentler voice.

"Nothing."

"Then why has Mrs. -forgot her name- requested my help?  Why don't you
come out into the hall so we can discuss this."

"Whatever," I said standing up.  "Everyone always fucks with me."

"WHAT?"  "WHAT DID YOU SAY MISTER?"

"I didn't do anything, I don't know what you want to talk about."

"You've totally disrupted this class."

"No, my hair got caught in the desk and it got knocked over."

He stared at me incredulously.  "Son, are you expecting me to believe
that?"

"You're not my father."

"What?"

"Don't call me son.  You're not my father."

"Come out in the hall."

"I didn't do anything."

"Get out here now!"

So, I walked out into the hall.  That was my mistake.  It went downhill
from there.

Mrs. Whateverhernamewas went back into the classroom.  It was just
Mr. Millar and myself in the hall now.  I stared at the floor.

"Why are you giving her such a hard time?  She deserves to be treated with
respect!"

"Yeah, I should too."

"What?"

"I should too I said.  She didn't believe me because I have long hair."

Well, that struck a cord with him.  He flipped on that one.

"WHAT?  WHAT?"

"You heard me."

He grabbed my hair and ripped my head up so that he could see into my
face.
Shock was clearly written on my face.  I hadn't expected him to grab me.

"Because of this," he asked shaking my head up and down back and forth.
"Noone gives a shit about your hair son!"

"Don't call me son!  You're not my fuckin' dad!  And get your fuckin'
hands off of me you prick!"

He let go of me and looked around the hall, his eyes were wild with anger.

"Come with me," he commanded and started to walk down the hall.  I walked
the opposite direction.  He turned around and grabbed me by the arm,
yanking hard to pull me in his direction.  I fell.

He stared at me as I lay on the floor.  Anger seeped away and was replaced
by my old friend, fear.

Incidentally, it might be important to know that I was beaten as a child.

"Get up," he demanded and reached down to yank me off the ground; again by
my hair.

He pulled me by the arm down into another office.  There he began to yell
at me for disrespecting the substitute.  Throughout the whole thing I was
silent.  I was planning.  I had to get away.  There was a look in his eye;
the same look that I saw before every beating I got.

See, when people lose control they all have the same look in their eyes.
I knew this look.  And I didn't like what was supposed to come next.

A few teachers walked into the room.  It was the social studies teachers
lounge.  He stopped yelling and commanded me to go out in the hall.  He
said a few words to his coworkers and followed behind me.

My mind began to shut down.

He started ranting at me about respect.  I was silent.  I was scared.

He opened a small door and pushed me inside.  He threw his jacket on the
floor.  "I'll show you some fucking respect mr.," he said as he balled his
hands into fists.

I ran.  I turned and ran.

I ran down past my classroom and into the next one.  The teacher was in
the midst of giving a test.  I slammed the door open.  Everyone turned to
stare at me.

"Can you please call the principal," I asked in a calm voice between
breaths.

"What are you doing," she asked me.  Shock was easily readable across her
young features.

"I need . . ."  I didn't get to finish.

"I'm conducting a test in here!  You don't just barge into a room . . ."

Then Mr. Millar entered the room and grabbed me by the shoulder.  "I'll
take care of this Cathy."  With that, he escorted me into the hall.  From
the classroom I could hear her begin saying, "What is this all . . ."

Mr. Millar let go of me and turned around to explain himself.  I ran.  I
ran again.

I ran all the way down to the principals office.  I knew him well.  I was
always in his office.  I was the prize student.

I got to the office and asked the secretary to let me see the principal.

"Well he's in a meeting right now.  If you'll sit down and wait he'll be
out in a few minutes."

I sat down.  I waited for 2 minutes (hours) and then I stormed out the
door. I had had enough time to think.  I was mad at myself for backing down.  I
shouldn't have gotten scared.  What was he going to do, hit me?  I should
have stayed.

I told myself lots of things.  I wasn't scared now.  I was angry.  I was
fury.

I ignored the secretary's pleadings as I stored out of the office.  I went
down past my locker towards my girl friends class.  I stopped.  I turned
back to my locker and got my jacket out.  Then I walked back to my
girlfriends classroom and asked the teacher if I could talk to her.

He said ok, and she came out in the hall.  Her eyes were wide.  She was
scared.  She always got scared when I was mad.  She wasn't scared for
herself or for me.  She was scared for anyone that stood in my way.

"Why are you crying?"

"I didn't know that I was," I said flatly, truthfully.

"What happened?  What's going on," Jen asked pleadingly.

"Nothing, I'm leaving though."

With that I turned and left.

I got to my car and when I couldn't open it on the first try I punched the
door.  I punched the door again.  And again and again, again, again,
again.  I punched the door until my knuckles bled as if they had been
cut with a razor.

I stared at my hands for a long time, standing in the middle of the road.
Tears streamed down my face and onto my hands.  I couldn't help crying.
To this day I don't know if it was tears of rage or fear.  It was probably a
mixture of both.

I got my keys in the door and unlocked my now dented and bloodied car
door. As I sat down Jen ran up to the passenger door.  I leaned over and
unlocked her door.

I sped around for an hour.  The tears had stopped by then.  Jen sat silent
in the passenger seat.  Waiting for me to talk.

I drove to my parents house and got out of the car.  They pulled up just
as I was walking towards the house.  They stopped and chatted with Jen.
Then the third degree came.

I told them a bit about what happened.  My mother pitched a fit and told
my old man that he had to drive her down to school so she could give them a
piece of her mind.  Jen drove back to school with me in the passenger
seat.  We followed my parents to school, I recounted the entire tale to
Jen as we drove.

"I can't believe he did that."  I'll never forget her saying that to me.
It was flat and emotionless.  To this day I don't know if she was saying
that she was sympathetic or that she didn't believe me.

We got to the school and went into the principals office.  My mother made
a huge stink about the whole thing.  The principal wasn't busy.  He sat and
chatted with us.  Finally he decided that Mr. Millar should be called in.

Mr. Millar walked into the room, "____, I'm sorry if I intimidated you.  I
know that I'm imposing but I didn't mean to frighten you."

Ignoring that I stared at him, my hair covering my eyes.  "You didn't
intimidate me.  You tried to fight me like a preschooler.  You threw me
onto the ground and pulled out my hair like a girl."

"I don't know what you're talking about.  This is all just a
misunderstanding," he said this last to my parents.

"I know what I'm talking about, and so do you.  You took me into the
closet and tried to get me to swing at you."

He looked around the room shocked.  First at my parents then at the
principal.

"You can lie to them all, but I know what happened and so do you you
fuck," I stated in a steady emotionless voice.

The principal looked at me.  "_____ I wish you wouldn't swear in here."

"Fuck you.  Do something about your employees," I told him.

My parents looked on.  Probably happy that I was venting on someone else
and not them.

"_____ honey, are you sure it happened the way you say it did," my mother
asked.

"I'm sure that's the way he felt it happened.  But I've know Mr. Millar
for a long time now and I know that what your son says just isn't the
kind of thing that he'd do," the principal stated.

"Look, lets just forget about this whole thing," Mr. Millar said extending
hand to me.

I looked at him.  I looked at the principal.  I looked at my parents.
I stood up.  "This is a fucking joke."

"Relax _____.  Sit down," Mr. Millar commanded.

I stared at him hard.  "Fuck...you."  I walked out of the room.

Jen came trailing after me speaking inanities to me the whole time.

----------------------
That was my senior year in high school.  During my freshman year in
college a very close friend of mine called me up.

"Hi ________"

"Hi D.  It's been a long time, how's school," I asked suprised to hear
from D.

"Mr. Millar died this past summer.  I haven't been able to track you down
for a long time.  I didn't know where you went.  You just disappeared."

"Yeah, I know.  What happened to him," I asked curiously.

"He had a heart attack while jogging this summer.  He's buried out at
______."

I smiled.  "No shit?  I'm going to have to pay him a visit."

I started to believe that some good things do happen in life.

I never did get a chance to piss on his grave.  I owe him that.  He made
me remember feelings I'd rather have forgotten.

I have his obituary on my wall.  The paper is yellowed but it's still
clearly ledgable.

idiot

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