Golf Won’t Save Me

At the end of last week I attended my first thrilling installment of golf practice. It wasn’t horrible in that I didn’t have to change my clothes, or get all fucking tired and sweaty, or worry too much about prickish jocks and their brutish, single-minded desire to crush the hope and life out of all who surround them and are different from them—but I realized after just a little while that I didn’t really want to be there and that I’m not really any good at golf. On the brighter side, being good at golf isn’t really an issue when you play on my school’s golf team; the fighting Panthers won’t be taking home any kind of fucking golf cup or whatever the hell the trophy is for putting. Not this year, anyway. Certainly not with Pendel on the team.

It seems silly to call the teacher in charge of this twice-weekly nature walk a “coach,” but we do. Coach Brody is short and thin and rat-like, but he’s not overtly evil—in fact he seems entirely harmless—he’s simply misguided and strange. He seems to think that the high school golf team matters and I don’t think he’s willing to let this delusion go. You wouldn’t believe how many times this guy walked me through a tee-off, and I was knocked over to witness that the one-hundredth demonstration was just as inspired as the first, no matter how half-hearted my efforts. Man, he was FULL of the healing properties of golf, totally consumed by it’s healthful benefits, and this obsession left him so completely bereft of self awareness that—and I swear to freaking god it’s true—he carried his extra golf balls around in the right front pocket of his tight plaid pants, and he always carried two, and they were down right by his crotch, and you could see every dimple in each ball. And in helping me get my swing down (a process which was not helped by the fact that I couldn’t give the slightest bit of shit about my swing), he kept standing behind me and putting his hands on my hips, which fucking FREAKED MY SHIT the first time he did it, but I quickly realized that this joker probably hasn’t thought about any kind of sex in two+ decades. I still felt completely invaded and soon told him that if he planned on keeping his fucking hands he needed to keep them off me.

Brody was taken aback by that, but I got some guffaws out of Sugarbear and Johnson, both of whom have become a point of despair for Brody, it seems. He has totally given up on their swings, and mostly we just walked around taking swigs of cheap wine that we poured into empty Pepsi bottles, occasionally hitting some balls into the woods or sand traps. It was good for some laughs. We got pretty toasted. Best of all, Coach Brody is so into his own head that he barely even noticed I had joined the team. I think he’s happy anyone gives a shit at all. The irony is we DON’T give a shit, and that’s exactly why we are there. Maybe that’s why everyone loves golf. It’s the only reason I can think of.

When practice was over, he simply walked back towards the direction of the school. He said, “Okay, fellahs, that’s enough for today.” Then he turned on his heels and left. It was pretty abrupt. I think he thought we were walking behind him.

I sat around the last green with Sugarbear and Johnson until well after sunset. There’s a small lake right nearby—supposedly it’s meant to throw off your game or some such lame-ass bullshit—but actually it’s very pretty, and I could tell why a person might like to trip acid there. It’s bound to be a good time.

When the wine was almost gone, I got the usual urge to talk more than I should while drinking and I started to tell Sugarbear (and Johnson) about something that happened a few months ago: Clare and I are like two years apart almost exactly, and her friends are all right around 15. Like any other girl, she has her friends over to stay the night all the time. So once, this girl named Vanessa comes over. She’s very pretty and very blonde, and she has the darkest eyes…they’re fucking crazy. It’s like I see the middle of the universe in her face. But you know, she’s very young, just barely not a girl anymore, and I try not to think about Clare’s friends too much as a rule anyway, mainly because I would hate to fuck up Clare anymore than I already have. I guess what the hell would it be to her if I make time with one of those girly girls—and besides, I know so many guys dating 15 year-olds, but oh well. I have enough problems. But Vanessa…wow. Trust me, if you saw her, you would want to change yourself—and then you would find it impossible, and then you would be crushed with the realization that a girl like her could never be yours, and then you would throw yourself off of a building. And as you lay crushed on the pavement and bleeding out of your anus, it would dawn on you that none of the buildings in your town are tall enough to be lethal, and then you would truly rue the day you came to believe you could win the heart of Vanessa.

So that night, she and Clare are watching TV, and I’m sitting on the big chair behind them. I think they were watching the fucking Hills or some such horrendous fucking malarkey. I was just spacing out, until Vanessa started brushing her hair. Before I knew it, I was fixated. It was hypnotizing. Her face was so blank, bathed in the TV’s unnatural light, and her movements so graceful, fluid, and automatic; she was one of the most beautiful machines I had ever seen. I don’t know how long I had been staring at her, maybe like five minutes or something, but it was long enough that I had forgotten there was a room around us, or even a world around us, and so I barely noticed when she said to me—without her eyes even leaving the television or the expression on her face changing—she says to me, “Stop looking at me, creepy Pendel.”

Creepy Pendel. Is that what I am?

When I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. She filled my vision even with my eyes closed. I tried like a freaking five-year-old to close my eyes even tighter, trying to block my imagination from seeping through the cracks of my lids, but it didn’t work. So I tip-toed into Clare’s room and just watched Vanessa breathe. With her motionless except for the slow movement of her chest, it was even more hypnotic than before. It was like she had never even been born; like she was out in space floating, waiting, without orders yet given, no hopes or fears yet in her; she had no need to be peaceful—having not yet been made aware of the shitty horrors of the world, and thusly had no need to be at peace—and so even peace was absent from her face. And again, I don’t know how long I had been staring. I was maybe even sleeping at her side when she said, so quietly that it thundered in my ears, “You’re scaring me.”

So I went back to my room. Probably I fell asleep. Who knows and who cares.

When I was done telling that story, Johnson was just looking at the ground with a strange smile at the corner of his lips (which I get A LOT, btw), and Sugarbear was shaking his head. “Pendel, you have got to get it together, man.” That was all he had to say about my story. Most likely it’s all I deserve.

I think I write too much for one post. I’ve been looking around at the other blogs out there (it’s a big step for me to come right out and use the word blog in relation to myself), and none of them seem to go on as endlessly as I do. I think I must bore the shit out of people.

Trouble Now

OMG. Such BULLSHIT. The cops didn’t CALL my freaking parents, they CAME HERE. To my HOUSE. I can’t write it all now, because my dad is coming in here in about 15 minutes to talk to me. I guess if you stumble across this website today and you are completely confused, just read up on the last couple of posts to find out about how EVERYTHING SUCKS.

So this morning, I am choking down a bowl of Crunch Berries (it’s the only cereal I can tolerate lately, I don’t know why), and I’m thinking about the meeting my mom has set up with the EVIL MR. HANSON, scum of the earth, that I have to sit through later today so the four of us (me, mom, my dad, and The Scum) can talk about the “Allegation” I have made against Hanson and his punk ass move to lower my science grade because I refuse join his retarded swim team (shaved freaks, gross). Read about it here. Ugh. Why do people have to RUIN what I like by making it into a thing? A CHORE? I love swimming, so what, now we have to turn it into a goddamned competition?! Fucking people. I hate it all. What a stupid, retarded, dumb-ass, hateful, pissy, shitty, crappy world. I refuse to take part in it.

Sorry about the side track. I’m eating Crunch Berries. Doorbell rings. Everyone’s wandering around for like ten seconds with the obligatory, “who can it be at this hour?” nonsense. But my gut just dropped into my Ponies, cause I know what it’s about. I think, though, that it must be Camile’s lunatic father coming to accuse me, and THAT I can handle. I’d just look the guy right in his gorilla eyes and tell him he’s off his rocker. A liar. Stop coming here and causing trouble! And so forth. I brace for it, pushing my bowl aside, but instead of hearing angry ape cries from the doorway, I hear this low, mumbly voice I don’t recognize, and then my dad saying, “Officer, that sounds like hogwash.” And then, of course, “PENDEL!”

Officer?!? Oh no no no.

I pulled it together and I sauntered out, as cool as I can, cause I gotta play it like I KNOW NOTHING. First impressions are everything, right? The cops are already looking at me like I’m guilty (which is all so funny because I am, but FUCK IT), and my parents are watching me with complete panic, like this is it, the moment they’ve been dreading for like the last year or so, since I really started being a local downer, and we all sit around the living room, and the cops are like, “Son, do you know why we’re here?” and I play it ICE COLD. I must say, even I was impressed with me, and I am not easily impressed. I say, hell yes, I know why their here, and I told that lousy turncoat Camile yesterday when she came over to make BASELESS accusations that it wasn’t me, and her screwed-up simian father can kiss off forever, and how he knows I’m not the smartest kid on the block so he thinks he can pick on me, and how he and his low-end wife don’t like me playing with their precious little daughter, so here they see a chance to get me out of the picture for good. Man, I was on fire. I was BELIEVING it.

I had a hard moment when the cops told me they have several eye witnesses claiming they all saw a kid that matched my description, but suddenly INSPIRATION flooded my head and I said, yeah, and what time of night was that?

It was strange, though. The cops got really neutral about it all. The gleam in their eyes, the thing that made them seem like they were laughing at me, it went away, and they just closed up their little notebooks and said “We’ll be in touch.” And out they went, leaving me with my parents, who didn’t know what to think.

I think my mom is just sad. She doesn’t know what to make of it, but she’s trying hard to hate Camile’s parents for thinking so poorly of me. But I know she knows better. I am the bad seed. Matty is the pride of the past. Clare is the new hope for tomorrow. Pendel is the sad failure of today.

And dad, I know he’s not ready to buy anything yet. He’s not so sympathetic to my plight. He played baseball in high school, he debated, he had a job at night, he helped my widow grandma; he was a stand-up kid. I am a metal-loving loser.

He’s coming now. Gotta go.

A Science Teacher and a Dick

Mr. Hanson is a dried-up prick and I hate him with everything I’ve got. His fucking hair is like some sad-ass page boy, he’s got a crumb-filled cock broom on his nasty lip, and he’s ruining the only thing that’s cool about school, which is my science class, which I like because (1) I get to kill things and cut them up, and (2) I keep finding out how weird and endless everything is, and that makes me feel good because it reminds me that the big assholes who keep fucking up my life are really very small in the scheme of things.

I guess I should give some background. So it’s no big secret that I like to swim. I pretty much try to spend like the WHOLE SUMMER in the water because I get to forget about all the bullshit and just get washed away in bubbles and be in a different world and it’s great. Whatever. I like to swim. So what. Me and everybody else on the goddamned planet, right? My dad likes to think he’s doing humanity a favor by keeping me from exploding, so he gets me this yearly thing to the YMCA so he can say he’s keeping me interested in crap I like when it’s really just a great way to keep my stupid mopey ass out of the house and to keep me from reading up on pipe bombs.

Anyway, Mr. Hanson is the swim team coach at school. I guess he must go to the Y to swim too, or to take exercise classes, or maybe his dumb loser ass teaches something there. I don’t know. I hear if you can’t get your shit together you can always live at the Y, so maybe that’s it. My dad was dropping me off cause he was totally sick of me blasting Mayhem (who completely fucking rock balls and are so evil, I love them), and I run into Queer Hanson who says to me, “Hey Pendel, I’ve been seeing you in the pool lately and you’re pretty good, so let’s talk Monday about the swim team.”

OK. First of all, GROSS. This prick’s been watching me at the pool? WTF?!? He’s got to be hard up as shit, then, cause I don’t even wear those little fucking trunk things—fucking speedos or whatever you assholes out there call them—I wear the big baggy shit and this douche bomb’s still looking at me? I am skeeved +1000 forever.

So I’m like, whatever. But then that Monday comes and I am sitting in Science listening to Manson Hanson drone on ENDLESSLY about molecular bonds and then out of nowhere he’s like, “So maybe Mr. Haight, the swim team’s newest star, can answer our question. Pendel?” I must have sat there for like 10 seconds until what he said finally soaked in, and then I was like, is there another Pendel Haight in here, cause that sure as hell doesn’t sound like ME. And then he was all like, “Well, we’ll have to talk about that after class.” And then I was all like, yeah, whatever, Corporal Cock.

And then after the bell, I tried to slink out under the radar, but he nabs me and is all in my shit. He’s all, “Hey, what gives?” I just told him it’s cool he thinks I swim well and everything, but it creeps me out to think anyone is watching me do it, and maybe he needs new hobbies. Then this square-ass bozo proceeds to talk to me about how I am DRIFTING, and that maybe getting INVOLVED in something BIGGER than myself might HELP ME become more GROUNDED (I am capitalizing the ‘barf’ words). I said, “Hey, that’s great stuff, you should write a book.” Then he wonders why I’m being so resistive to the ‘life-line’ he’s throwing me. HA. I said, yeah, you’re throwing me a fucking LINE alright, you pervert. Wow. He got super, super-pissed at that, and started ranting about carelessness, and reputations, and all sorts of shit, so I was like, “Hey man, truly, I am just not interested in helping out, ok?” I mean, I am just not a team player. I hate my high school, I hate the people who think they run it, I hate the teachers that beat their heads against the walls inside of it, and I TRULY, TRULY DESPISE any of the dick weed students who feed off the culture and thrive on it. Sleeping with the enemy, bubba.

Long story short, I get my grades for the semester a couple of days later, and my grade in science drops from an A (the ONLY goddamned A that I have EVER gotten, by the way) to a B-. Coincidence? I THINK NOT. You are on my list, Hanson. Make book on it.

Is it me? Did I do something so fucking wrong here? What am I supposed to do now? Fuck.