tds

Before I go into the meat of my little story, I think I should tell you how I got to where I amor wasor something. Honestly, I don't give a damn if you know or not, because it's irrelevant. But, hell, if it's irrelevant and all, there's no reason not to tell you, is there?
A wise man once said that there are things in life that are just meant to be broken: rules, arms, legs, necks, and hearts. Now, in my life, I've seen-and occasionally have taken part in-all of these breakings. However, the first and the last just seem to follow me, like some cloud of depression just to rain on me when the sunshine of happiness comes out to brighten my world. Wow, that was deep. I must be getting sick. But, the point is, I'm an amateur professional when it comes to losing. I'm a "jobber"; a habitual loser. Why? Because I always seem to break the rules, and end up breaking my heart by proxy.
The scene is a public school in Rael, Pennsylvania, perhaps the single strangest town east of the mighty Mississipp. If you've heard of it, it's probably because that weirdo cartoonist Clive Walker lives there. Anyway, I was in the Rael High School gym, taking part in that obscenely pretentious exercise known as Winter Formal. Since this is the proud PA, the center of the universe (just ask anyone from there), it's colder than the morgue in Santa's workshop. My date this fine evening was the lovely Becky Davenport. I'd known her for years, and we'd dated (officially) for a few months. Incredible girl. You'd love her. Not a total beauty in the Paris Hilton/Pam Anderson sense of the word, but a kind of beauty in that warm, intelligent, and hilarious Janeane Garafalo way. Hair fairly short, that bobbed in the middle of her ears when she walked. Ol' Becky wasn't that tall either; just you're average imperfectly perfect girl. I swear, you'd love her. But I digress.
On this cold, snowy December evening, I had the perfect plan for my and Becky's best night ever: a quick, quiet escape in my good friend Tova Spade's car to her empty house (her dad was, and still is to the best of my knowledge, dead, thanks to a somewhat comical piano accident, and her mother had a date with local character Pennsylvania Championship Wrestling Heavyweight champ, Ric Bryson), then engage in a little romantic teenage activity. Yeah, it sounds petty in retrospect, but when you're seventeen in a small town, sex is really all that matters, with cash being a close second. Besides, while both Becky and I had done "it" before, we hadn't done "it" with each other. Big night, people.
Anyway, as any sane, intelligent, right thinking person on this paltry, depressing planet knows, there's always something that must go wrong. I'm told it's called Murphy's Law. It's just the nature of things. Just ask a James Bond villain. The snafu in this case was Becky herself; she wasn't happy, and when Becky ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.
Just as the DJ, class president (though ironically she had little class and couldn't pronounce "president") Danielle Tierney, blared Savage Garden's "Truly Madly Deeply"-the premier slow dance song of our generation-I got Becky on the floor. She had this look on her face like she'd just found out her dog died, and I had killed it.
"Mind telling me what I did or didn't do?" I asked. People say I come off as abrasive; I say they can jump off a cliff and land on a bear trap.
"Nothing," Becky muttered with more than a little frustration in her voice.
"I know I did something," I pushed. "I'd just like to know, that's all,"
"Reuben," Becky said, stopping our mangled slow dance. "I don't want to see you anymore."
"Why?" I asked, in a tone usually reserved for questioning a coach's move in a football game. No real emotion had kicked in yet.
"Because while I'm with you, life is passing me by," Becky said, sounding both hurt and angry. "No matter what we do or where we go or who we're with, you always make me feel bad about myself."
"How have I done that? I haven't insulted you or anything,"
"Just the way you act, Reuben," she said, now sounding a little exasperated. "You just have such a negative outlook, and it reflects in everything you do. Jesus, Reuben, I don't need any more depression in my life. Especially some that isn't mine."
"How have I made you feel bad about yourself?" I said with a snigger. Sniggering is among the worst things you can do while trying to plead your case to a girl.
"Whenever we see a movie, you always have something negative to say," Becky continued. "Whenever we go out to dinner, you always have some snide comment about the waiter. You're justyou're just being yourself, and I don't need that now. You just drain the life and emotion out of me."
This was heavy. I was totally at a loss on something to say, primarily because nothing I could do would make a damn difference. So I did the only thing I could: laugh. I don't know why I did it, and I know I shouldn't have, but I laughed. I could see a little fire reflect in Becky's eyes.
"I knew you'd do something like this," she proclaimed, just loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the damn gymnasium. "I fucking knew it."
"Look," I said, getting all defensive. "go if you want, because I really don't care anymore. Besides, I don't want to depress you any further!"
That last bit was yelled almost to the top of my lungs, and had Becky in tears, marching towards the streamer-covered door. She would yell things like "Fuck you!" as she stormed out of the building. I needed to say something. I needed the last word. So I had to choose my next line carefully:
"Have a happy new year!"
Yes, I yelled "Have a happy new year!" to a girl after a public breakup. My mind went blank, and I had no idea of what to say. I mean, I suppose if I wanted to be vulgar and gross I could have yelled quite a few things. But I didn't because I fucking hate cursing, and as a general rule I try not to swear in front of girls of the female persuasion. It's a great blessing to be cursed with.
Now, as I said before, the breaking of rules and hearts go hand-in-hand for me. When it comes to love, I break all the rules, and when it comes to rules, I love breaking them. I can't really help it. The vicious cycle to end all vicious cycles, no? So, as I stood alone on the dance floor, with the eyes of the whole student body staring holes through me, I figured I should break some rules. I didn't want their memory of this dance to be "Reuben Hyatte got dumped, then told her to have a happy new year." I needed some catharsis, and I wanted to make it as entertaining as I possibly could.
Running around the gym all night was the school mascot, the Rael Jaguar. I don't know how or why a jaguar got in Pennsylvania, but then again I'm not on the school board. The great spotted beast (the spots were from moth damage, by the way; the same costume had been used since the Nixon administration) was running around, handing out flyers for sporting events, selling tickets for some retarded "school spirit" raffle, and dancing in a comical fashion to songs like "Love Shack" and "I'm A Believer." Total tripe that was supposed to "up school morale." I hate crap like that. Saying you want to boost morale lets everyone know they're supposed to be depressed about something, and that the only cure is some socially starved teenager in a damn cat suit dancing to old pop songs. I don't know about you, but that depresses me more thanwhatever the hell was supposed to be depressing us before. Anyway, this ugly thing was attired in the school colors (blue, red, and grey), and was manned by Ronnie Keith. Ronnie was your token fat loser who, when he generates sympathy, pisses it all away for being an asshole. The role of the masked litter-box filler suited him perfectly. So, he was dancing like Travolta all night, but when my little falling out with Becky occurred, he just stood watching, paws on hips. Now, with everyone watching me, I decided he'd be the perfect target for some rule breakage.
What happened next, I imagine, became the stuff of local legend.
I began laughing an over the top insane laugh. I'm talking Renfield of Dracula-fame, here. That's an awesome coping device, by the way. Give it a try. You'll love it; it's a way of life. Then I flipped a double bird in the air, held high for everyone to see, and ran at that tri-colored mascot monstrosity with all the speed I could muster in dress shoes and slacks. I'd dearly love to know what went through that slob Keith's head when he saw my six-two, 180lbs running at him. But I'd be even more interested to know what he was thinking when I speared his feline ass.
"OOF!" came out, muffled somewhat by the big ugly cat head. God, for a second I'd thought I'd killed him. When I got up, I straightened my glasses (I'd been near-sighted most of my life), then surveyed the shock on everyone's face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few teachers walking rather quickly towards me. I figured I had about five seconds before I was unceremoniously booted from the dance, so I lit up a cigarette. I was already on death row as far as the school was concerned, so why not?
"What's your problem, Hyatte?" Mr. Ackerman, the principal and resident ass, shouted at me as I sucked down my Marlboro Light.
"I don't have a problem," I said, in a way that tried so hard to be calm that it sounded arrogant. Then Ackerman grabbed my arm and escorted me from the premises. I, being the prick that I am, yelled "Easy, chief. Try a little tenderness."
"You are in so much trouble, Hyatte!" he scolded as he dragged me off. He always mispronounced my last name; it's Hyatte, like the hotel, not "High Eight." I don't know if it was him being an asshole or him being a schmuck.
"Consider yourself suspended indefinitely!" Ackerman continued.
For the third time in the space of twenty minutes, I laughed. I really gotta quit doing that. Sends the wrong message or something, because Ackerman heaved me out the door into a snow bank. Screwed up my slacks, too.
"I'm going to do everything in my power to have you expelled!" he yelled.
"You just said thirty seconds ago I was suspended!"
"Don't bother coming in Monday!"
I really don't know when to shut my trap, do I?
As he slammed the door, I just sat in the snow, pondering what exactly I had done. I'd lost an amazing girl, attacked some fat guy dressed as a cat, and told the principal of Rael High to "try a little tenderness." How many people can tell their grandkids that? A couple minutes later, Rick James began singing about a very kinky girl, and the dance was back to abnormal. My moment of stupidity-laced glory was over.
I decided I'd walk home; my house was only a few blocks away, and Becky's mom had driven us on the way to her own date. And there was no way in hell I was waiting for Tova for an hour, at least. Then I remembered I'd left my jacket in Becky's mom's car. I felt that much colder upon remembering that.
The boy who didn't follow the rules, I thought. I've heard that line all my life, from teachers, family, and even my friends. I'm not trying to deny it or anything, because it's obviously true. I am the boy who didn't follow the rules. I've got eight years of report cards to back me up. I don't break them out of malice (though that's always a factor), but more because it just seems like the right thing to do. That sounds strange, but so does everything if you think about it long enough. Hearts and rulesit's funny sometimes: I can't follow either without both ending up in pieces. Best part of it all is, I can't to jack about it.
As these thoughts floated around my head, another joined them: expulsion. Now, as hard as it may be for you to believe, I've been expelled before. Six times, as a matter of fact. My stride suddenly went into a methodical mince. All of a sudden, God knows why, but I decided I didn't want to get home as fast as I had a few seconds earlier. I could hear my parent's reactions to Expulsion Part Seven in my head: Dad on the phone from the City of Angels, giving one of his classic "You're a goddamn failure!" preachings, Mom giving one of her classic "You're a gash-darn failure!" lectures-just like old times. Maybe they'd finally get the point that public school is a faade; all it does is prepare people for hell in the future. I personally blame the government. Maybe they'd send me somewhere that has people who could appreciate my invaluable contribution to society. But, if the past was any indication, they'd just enroll the rule breaker in the next public school in the area that was willing to try and "mold" me. The whole state probably had my name in big letters on a black list or something.
Then it hit me. By "it," I mean my front stoop. Hurt like hell. I really had no choice but to go in now. I mean, for all I knew my mom had seen me when I fell on the bottom step. Or worse yet, Ackerman called from the dance. It was a damned it you do, damned if you don't situation. How very apropos for the "boy who didn't follow the rules."

The End