This is NOT Over

Saturday Oct 14, 1989 Never Leave the Fucking Backpack

Woke up wobbly. Stupid floor making my back feel like a 40 year old back. Scurried and hurried to my work assignment on the Rock.

As I ran through the lobby I came across a weird assortment of POLS jerks, FLeRPS and Honors kids smoking and shouting at each other. I had a few minutes to stop. Normally I don't care about such stuff but they were really going at it, so I had to ask, "What the fuck is wrong with you people?"

One of the POLS jerks said, "The Market crashed!"

"Dominick's?" I asked.

"No," said the POLS jerk, "The Stock Market crashed!"

"Again?"

A FLeRP said (possibly in a fake French accent, because I am still not convinced he is actually from France he just thinks the fake accent and weird haircut will get him laid), "The world may have lost a billion dollars in wealth. Where have you been?"

"The Phantom of the Opera," I said as I left these folks, charged through the lobby doors and made my way to the Recycling Center.

Hungover, but work-release was ok. Throw a milk jug here, stack old newspapers there. It could've turned out worse for me I guess.

Came home at 1:30pm and Buttweasle said Susan called like three times already. I sat down to play Tecmo and practice my Bo Jackson intangibility maneuver. The phone rang.

It was Susan.

I asked her what she was up to. She said she was doing some light reading. I asked her what she was reading and she said, "I think you'll find it interesting. Here's something from page 55: 'This walk home past the water, saying bad things about geese has been in the works for some time now. It has been written in the stars or something like that. You could write War and Peace with all the fucking stars that were out on our romantic fucking walk.' What do you think? Pretty saucy stuff. Do you want me to go..."

Fuck.

For some reason I looked around the dorm room for my backpack. I knew it wasn't there. Susan had it.

I let the phone drop and smack the wall. I grabbed my shoes and coat. I pushed through the crash doors and ran down the back stairs to the street.

NEVER LEAVE THE FUCKING BACKPACK!

I ran-walked from the stupid dorms to John Street. Jen-O, Susan and a few other people were hanging out. I was pretty sure they all read my journal or had parts of it read to them. Probably the parts that make me look stupid because they are the easiest to find in that fucking thing and in fact are that fucking thing.

Jen asked, "Why didn't you say hello to Frisch?"

Oh goddammit

"I've been reading this most of the morning," said Susan.

"Yeah?"

"There are parts where you kind of make it sound like we are going out," she said, cocking her hip slightly.

"Oh. Don't worry, I can change it."

Jen-O laughed, but Susan stared straight at me and said, "You can't just make up a bunch of shit and call it the past Ed."

"Why not? Historians do it all the time." I coughed. Then I walked past Susan and took a can of Bud from the fridge. "Who wants to sit outside and look at the river? It's not too sunny."

I'd like to say that the girls and I took our drinks and strolled out on to the veranda overlooking the water but we just put down lawn chairs in the overgrown grass and tried not to smell the stinky river.

Jen-O asked for a cigarette and I obliged. I lit it for her and lit one of my own with the same match. I’ve been sort of humiliated, but at least I’m saving matches.

"You're right," Jen said, "It's not too sunny out here."

I watched Susan drink her beer. Then I noticed the girls' old boom box on the ground next to the house. I pushed play and Susan asked, "That's garbage. What are you doing?"

"Just seeing what happens," I said, removing the Chesterfield from my mouth and taking a swig of beer.

It worked although the batteries were running low. It warbled and then managed to pick up speed long enough for me to make some sense out of the music. I made the girls a reggae mix tape from shit at the station. The one song we could make out was the Heptones. It was their version of “Mama Say.”

It played for two verses or so. Somewhere around the second time the guy says "here's a little porridge in the dish" the tape heads struggled to work, slowed quickly, became unintelligible and died.