Rats Saw God (10 page)

Matt Whiteside, still enough of a Boy Scout to bring binoculars, was the first to spot the pride of GOD as it turned off Spruce Terrace onto Buccaneer Boulevard.

“Thar she blows!” he announced, getting his nautical allusions mixed up.

“Is the hammer working?” his concerned brother asked.

“Aye, matey.”

For perhaps the only time, GOD followed the lead of Lynnette, who was the first of our group to stand as our dadaistic masterpiece passed in front of the student body. We applauded every bit as madly as the Key Club had for their “Buccaneer Slaying Mustang,” the Future Farmers for their “Buccaneer Slaying Mustang,” the French Club for their “Boucanier Massacre le Cheval” or the PETA group for their “Buccaneer Domesticating Mustang.” Trey, riding shotgun, gave a thumbs-up to our delirious section. In my euphoria, I failed, momentarily, to monitor the reaction of the homecoming crowd. But I quickly realized that the stunned reception
Get Hammered
was reaping justified every sweltering, Life-Saver-gluing minute spent in the Whiteside barn.

The band, section by section, simply quit playing. Dancing cheerleaders, puzzled by the silence, turned to face
Get Hammered.
Several dropped their pom-poms. Skate or Diers lowered their newspapers. Administrators stood transfixed by the motorized contraption before them. Waves of students and teachers turned to stare at our bantam cheering section, effectively cowing us into silence. After what seemed like an hour, the hush was unexpectedly broken by a lone bass drum, which began to boom in time with the downward stroke of our hammer. Again and again the drummer punctuated the hammer's “impact,” providing a slow but ominous-sounding rhythm. Then, one of the football players began clapping with the beat. He was joined by the rest of the team, and soon the entire grandstand had fallen in line, giving the pep rally the aura of a Celtic funeral
march. Our float had passed completely from view before the drum major whistled the band back into the Grace fight song to accompany the Ski Club's “Buccaneer Slaying Mustang”—modified by their radical substitution of a ski pole for the traditional cutlass.

I got my third letter from Doug today. If I don't start writing back I'm sure I'll lose all contact with Texas. That might not be a bad thing. I'm always afraid to open his letters for fear I will learn fresh details of
her
life. I guess that since I've been writing for DeMouy, and I've had to type her name regularly, I've grown a bit more accustomed to it. But all my information is old. I don't want to know what she's up to now, unless maybe it's something tragic.

Lip Monster!

Forget everything you've read. It's still possible to have sex in college. Cheap, tawdry, meaningless, fleeting, dirty, anonymous sex. You can't have it with anyone, but no one stops you from taking matters into your own hand.

You ought to come here for college. Austin has to be the coolest city in Texas. Even the frat boys recycle. After my Friday Chem II class, our T.A. takes us out and buys us pitchers of Shiner Bock at The Crown and Anchor.
[Shiner Bock is like water in Austin.]

I'm drumming for a band now. I answered an ad that was tacked up in the student union building.
It was the only band that didn't want to play lame-ass white funk/rap. Get this… we're called the Originals and we play only 1970s guitar rock. Just as you always predicted, I'm out there resurrecting “Sweet Home Alabama.” We've been opening up on weeknights at the perfectly named Hole in the Wall. It's right here on the Drag. We've started drawing pretty well, and we've been promised a weekend night pretty soon.

Hang in there, buddy. Remember, the thighs of Texas are upon you.

Hook 'em! (God, I'm spirited
.)

Doug

The school official who dictated that our fifty-dollar prize for most original float was to be deposited directly into our school account displayed a wisdom rare among his ilk, as I'm sure the loot would have been squandered on beer had we received cash in hand. When Principal B. J. Stokes stammered “The Grace Order of Dadaists” as winner of the “most original” category, its cynical membership reacted with all the reserve associated with English soccer fans. We hugged; we pumped our fists in Jimmy-Connors-march-to-the-U.S.-Open-semis fashion; we screamed, “Pork!”

In the melee I found myself pushed next to Dub. We studied each other for a pregnant few seconds. I would have stood there with a Gomer Pyle expression on my face for days, but she spread her arms, inviting me within. I stepped
forward and wrapped my arms farther around her than celebratory etiquette allows, gaining the opposite side of her back with each hand. As she turned her head sideways and pressed her ear against my collarbone, I felt sure Sarah's letter
had
been accurate: Dub felt
something
for me, maybe a fraction of what I felt for her, but in some form, we had connected.

Suddenly I felt a Viking slap on my back. I withdrew from the hug and turned to find Doug ripe for manly celebrating. His fists were clenched overhead in a V for victory sign, and he was crooning the opening lines of “We Are the Champions.” Immediately aware of the creature from the blue jean lagoon testing the metal of my zipper, I jammed my fists into my pockets and joined in. We didn't get very far before the band struck up the alma mater. This put me in the awkward position of trying to decide whether or not to take my hands out of my pockets to put my arms around my neighbors, as convention dictated for the rendering of the song. Doug was similarly perplexed for dissimilar reasons: Meekly joining in this maudlin tribute to an institution for which he acknowledged no fealty whatever was just too hypocritical to contemplate. Evidently misconstruing my woody-concealment gesture as a show of defiance, he also stuck his hands in his pockets, and the two of us finished off the Queen song to the tune of “Hail Grace High.”

Toby the Party, so named for his talent for knowing the location of every kegger in Greater San Diego, offered me a couple shots of tequila on my way in from the parking lot after lunch. Toby
had served as sort of the stoner Welcome Wagon when I first arrived in town. I wouldn't exactly call him a friend, but we had cut plenty of classes together.

“You got the new Mudhoney CD yet?” T. P. inquired as he pulled a lime out of his glove box. I shook my head no. Toby's big dream, practically the only thing he talked about, was moving to Seattle once he got out of school, growing his hair down to his knees, and playing in the grungiest band he could find.

I took the second shot he offered out of guilt for not seeing much of Toby lately. Despite feeling a bit sloppy afterward, I stopped by DeMouy's office. The evening before I had found a used cassette called
Spooky Sounds and Naughty Noises
at Play It Again Sam's. I thought DeMouy could probably punch it in on Halloween. Besides, it only cost me a buck.

Allison Kimble, however, occupied my all-but-branded chair. On her lap she held open a massive organizer/planner. I scanned it from the doorway. Every day appeared to have four or five entries. DeMouy was sifting through files, gathering materials Allison must have requested.

“Have you gotten the application from ITT Tech that I asked for?” I asked in my Clear Lake–honed Thurston Howell voice. DeMouy didn't respond, but he smiled slightly without looking up from the files.

Allison swiveled. “Well, if it isn't Bandanna Man.”

And it occurred to me,
What the hell am I doing here? Can't I see all the disturbing parallels?
Without thinking of an appropriate exit line, I closed the door, walked out to my car, and drove to the beach. I had enough school for the day.

Stan Jr., Doug's nearly legal-aged older brother, proved to be the hero of the night. It took him only three 7-Elevens to find a convenience store lackey willing to sell him a case of Busch.

“I'm just glad I could do something to help American kids,” he said, dropping Doug and me off at the Whiteside barn. We were compelled to meet on Homecoming Eve to dismantle
Get Hammered;
Beverly's parents needed the truck the following day. Doug and I weren't the only two who thought demolition work could only improve with beer. Most of the members showed up with smuggled bottles stuck in baggy jeans pockets, hidden in purses, tucked in boots.

Veg brought his parents' video camcorder and recorded the evening's merriment. Matt started up the hammer and all of us climbed aboard the float. Veg set the camera on the hood of Zipper's convertible Rabbitt and joined us in the shot. We replaced the standard teeth-revealing “cheese” with the less gummy, but more germane, “Pork.” Later Doug suggested Veg shoot Matt and me forcing him like a prisoner, in affected slow motion, to the spot near the truck's cab where the hammer struck regularly. Veg, sensing his president's intentions, stopped the tape just before Doug pulled his head out of the killing zone. Doug took the camera out of Veg's hands and shot a couple of seconds from the vantage point of the truck cab as the hammer swung toward him. Handing the camera back to Veg, he ran across the barn to the shelf where we had stored our leftover tempera paint. He grabbed a bottle of the red we used on the handle, unscrewed the top, and poured it across
the cab of the truck, letting it spill down the back in rivulets. Then he positioned Veg in his original taping spot.

“Okay, Veg. When I say action, you start recording.” Doug motioned for Matt and me to rejoin him. He pulled his sweatshirt up so his head was covered, then instructed us to grab him by the arms. He positioned himself so that his back blocked the still-runny red paint from the camera. As the hammer began its descent, Doug shouted action.

When the hammer struck, Doug flailed his headless body backward revealing the faux blood stain where, through the magic of video, there had once been a skull. He then plowed through a half case, or “twack” (our contraction of “twelve pack”), while watching his videotaped execution over and over again. Consequently, he wasn't much help in taking apart the float. (Of course, even if he'd been sober, Doug probably still wouldn't have been much help.)