CRAZY LITTLE THING CALLED LIFE
Philip Wooldridge
Smashwords Edition 1.0, February 2012
Copyright 2012 Philip Wooldridge
*****
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Full catalog of eBooks by Philip Wooldridge available at:
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/fourmoons
* * * * *
It’s What You Shouldn’t Say That Counts
If there was one film, besides Star Wars, that every boy had to see or at least experience vicariously through the words of others, it was Animal House. We sat around, gazing up at the older kids like tribal elders, basking in the words of Bluto, D-Day, and Flounder. Every kid got word of the Delta House shenanigans, and we all wanted to pledge immediately.
Until we were accepted to local colleges, we had to do the best we could with what we had available to us. Enter the Harris Elementary Milk Guzzler's club, the brain-child of a group of fourth graders who noticed the extra milks available to whoever walked to the window sill and gathered them.
Most of us got the tray lunches in the cafeteria back then. It was standard fare; meat, a veggie, a bread product and a half-pint of white milk. Many of the kids, however, didn't like white milk for one reason or another, and would place the unused mini cartons on the window sill next to the trash cans.
About that same time, my friend Greg entered the eatery one fine day sporting a "futuristic" digital watch (and we actually went nuts for these things back then). One day, while sitting around, probably quoting the Delta boys, we discovered this watch had a two-way timer function, both counting up and down. We were fascinated at this technological miracle, and watched as the seconds flew up into infinity and dwindled down to zero.
As we were eyeing the milks by the window, Tim, an aspiring bully and all around little shit, said "I bet I can drink five milks in thirty seconds." Replies of disagreement came from the others, and he went to the window, grabbed five of the cartons, and shortly returned. He looked at my friend who owned the watch, slammed the cartons down on the table like shot glasses, pointed at Greg's watch and said, "Time me," with a wicked smile.
We watched as he poured each of the five cartons down his chubby little throat, one after the other, more like an alien invader than a little boy. As the last empty container came slamming down on the table, the beeping of the stopwatch went off, and we all pushed ourselves back a little bit in amazement at what we'd just witnessed. "So," said Tim, "Who can beat me?"
Looking back, I'm sure each and every one of us would admit this would all end very badly. But no one had the courage - the gauntlet had been thrown down, and in the halls of Harris Elementary, you had to accept a challenge, no matter how scared you seemed or how stupid you knew it was.
"Okay," I replied, "I can do six," as I got up from the table, and headed to the window. On the way there and back, I was trying to think of ways to win the duel without making a complete ass of myself. I could drink from the side, and let it pour out of the corner of my mouth, I thought. No, it would get all over my shirt - I'd be a cheater, and that's worse than a chicken. As I returned to the table, six cartons bundled in the bottom of my shirt, I knew there was no way out. I had to do this - no - I would do this.
I set the milks down on the table, and took a deep breath. All eyes were on me, all attention was focused on my upcoming performance. I opened the cartons and lined them up neatly, and then folded my hands, almost in prayer. "Clock starts when you touch the first one," said Greg. Tim was across from me, head held high like a proud rooster, knowing my failure was imminent. I exhaled and wrapped my fingers around the furthest milk to the left.
"GO" screams Greg, and I tilted my head back to open up the passageway more, One, down, two, gone, three, history. "C'mon!" screamed the others, "You can do it!", and they began chanting "Phil! Phil! Phil! Phil!" Four, five, six, all the milks were gone, and as my last carton came to rest on the table, Greg hit the stopwatch button.
"Whoa," he said, "Twenty-seven seconds!" Cheers erupted all around, and even though I was on the edge of nausea, I had stood my ground. Still breathing heavily, I looked across the table at Tim, who got up from the table and peered directly into my eyes, with a fierceness I'd not seen before or since. He smiled at me, and that smile evolved into full laughter. "Phil," he said, offering the palm of his hand, "Slick me some skin!" I had made it; I had not only been warmly greeted by the cool kid, I was now one of them. I slapped Tim's palm, and slowly drew back my hand, and we both celebrated with two more milks apiece from the sill of the cafeteria window.
The meetings of the Milk Guzzlers continued each and every day, just about the last five minutes or so of the lunch period. We continued with our timing and branched out the events: how many milks in thirty seconds, how many in ten, fastest time for a single milk, and so on. It was like our own inner city Olympic Games, and with word having been passed around the lunchroom, we strolled to the window each day like athletes in the prime of life, as if invisible roses were being through down from imaginary bleachers.
Now, if you're at all familiar with the futility of childhood ideas, you already know this will come crashing down hard. And so it did. I had been in the game for about a month now, and was the Gold medalist of the thirty second event - nine half-pints of milk. As I walked among the cheering fans, with empty cartons in hand, I could feel the rumbling and bubbling of the alabaster stew that was percolating in my gut. I couldn't show weakness, and held it together for the sake of my reputation. We lined up outside the cafeteria door, and prepared to walk back to Ms. Fredrick's classroom.
Oh God, I thought, as I felt the emerging liquid starting to make its way back to the surface. Please, Jesus, please don't let me puke. Ms. Fredrick blew her whistle and motioned for us to head down the main hall of the school. We walked, and with every step, I felt the thick liquid go back and forth inside my stomach. I hugged my midsection tightly, praying with each stride I could avoid what I knew was meant to be. We made our way down the three steps which lead into the lower part of the main building. Not the steps, I thought, PLEASE GOD! NOT THE STEPS!
I stopped just before my descension, and doubling over, fell to my knees. "Phil," said Ms. Fredrick, "Honey, are you gonna be okay?" I looked up at her, already in pre-heave stance. I gazed around at my classmates in line, some curiously watching, others bracing themselves for the inevitable. "Phil," said Ms. Fredrick, "Darlin', you look like you're gonna be sick."
I slowly nodded in confirmation, sensing the milk rise up through my torso, and feeling the sweat pour down my face, dripping to the point that my plastic-framed glasses slid down my nose. I breathed heavily three times, then reared my head back and let all hell flow loose from my body. The chunky milk burst forth at the beginning of the small steps, gently flowed down each and every one like a serene waterfall, and created a larger pool at the bottom. There was one other such eruption, and during that my face had become so drenched with sweat, my glasses dropped off, and sailed down to the bottom like a little toy boat.
Screams of horror came forth from the girls, laughter from the boys, and what I could only guess was a disgusted gasp from Ms. Fredrick. She helped me up and took me to the nurses' office. I told the nurse how I'd manage to find myself in this predicament, and then rested. I could hear the nurse explaining the reasons for my spewing to the principal, Mr. Hampton, and looked up from my seat to catch his steely gaze piercing my very mind and soul. "When you get cleaned up, Phil," he said, "we'll need to have a few words together about all this."
I took my time wiping my face with cool wash rags, as I knew what horrid fate awaited me. Mr. Hampton was a tall, thin man of about seventy. Lots of rumors floated in the halls of Harris Elementary regarding his past, but one was true; he was, in fact, a vampire. He was a soldier in Belgium during World War Two who got cut off from his platoon one dark and stormy night. He was kidnapped by an evil vampire lord, and taken by carriage to Transylvania, where he was turned to the dark side. He learned the black arts, and was taught to walk among the living in daylight with special glasses. He spent three years in Europe honing his craft, perfecting his killing style, and returned to America in the late 1940's, where he studied education in order to feed off the blood of children. We all heard he slept like a bat in his office.
I got cleaned up just in time for my father to arrive at the nurses' office, and we both entered through Mr. Hampton's door, him more confused than anything, and myself terrified beyond words. "Mr. Wooldridge," said the principal. "I'm sorry I had to call you away from work under such … unique circumstances."
"It's no problem at all," replied my father. "What's going on here - why does Phil look so sick?"
"Well," continued Mr. Hampton, "Seems like young Phil here is a founding member of the Milk Guzzlers Club, and quite the competitor I understand."
"The Milk … what?" asked my father.
"The Milk Guzzlers Club, Mr. Wooldridge," replied the principal. “It seems as if it’s an elite fraternal type organization amidst our hallowed halls. The boys gather around, collect all the extra milks available in the lunchroom, and time themselves with stopwatches, judging how many, and how fast, they can consume said beverages.”
My father looked at me with eyes much similar to Ms. Fredrick’s gaze, with a little bit of shock thrown in, now knowing his only son was capable of reaching such a low point.
“Phil,” asked Mr. Hampton, “Who were the other boys involved?”
I thought an hour in the principal’s office with my father was as bad as it got, but asking me to rat on my new found friends, a bully among them? That was the worst. Come what may, I had to keep my mouth shut - I’d rather be thrown out of Harris than be known as a snitch. I bowed my head down and stared at the tips of my shoes.