Words: Benjamin Gruner 2016-12-16 14:42:30
I was a world-class doodler. That’s how I ended up in seventh-period College Algebra. Don’t let the title fool you. “College” algebra was for those who passed Algebra One by the skin of their teeth. It was for those who should’ve chosen trade school. In a classroom filled with underachievers, it was easy to lose concentration. Most of my time was balanced between using ballpoint to re-create Mr. Fitzgerald’s hook-shaped nose and staring at the back of Cindy Harrison’s beautifully shaped head. My focus from these two passions was rarely broken. But today, it was. I felt a short, crisp slap on the back of my neck. Followed by the sharp, malicious sting that can only be inflicted by one thing—a No. 2 Ticonderoga. It was Billie Briggs. Billie and I were in College Algebra for similar reasons. Aside from his skin color and Jheri curl, Billie and I had a lot in common. We both lived in the suburbs, shared the same driveway and had a strong propensity for carp on the fly. Today was the first day we didn’t have football practice and we aimed to take full advantage. We decided I would take an extended bathroom break, grab our rods and slip out through the gymnasium door. Billie thought it would be best to skip the entirety of eighth period—adding another strike to his deplorable high school track record. We’d meet at the flagpole where Jonnie Royce and Stevie No-Talks brawled over Sharon Moody last Friday. One eye on the clock, I can feel the small beads of teenage sweat drip down my forehead. I give Gus Garrison my lunch money to keep Mr. Carliner distracted. Gus makes his move, Carliner turns his back and I hit the pavement. My Jordans squeak with every stride on that linoleum tile and my baggy white T-shirt flaps in the wind. I bang a hard left and come to a screeching halt at my locker. My hands fumble. I unlock. I swing the door open and the smell of dead sunfish permeates the bleach-scented hallway. I grab the rods, check for hall monitors and sprint to the gym. Bo Jackson-style, I throw my shoulder into the large steel door on the other side of the gym. Freedom. I sprint to the flagpole, unchain my bike and we hit the road. We make a quick pit stop at Dallas Hot Wieners. We each crush two Dallas Dogs in less than 15 seconds and push forward. We weave in and out of midtown traffic. We pass the YMCA and hop the train tracks on the east side of town. Three blocks away, we can smell the Esopus Creek. Don’t be fooled. This isn’t the famous Catskills Esopus. This is her distant, dirty cousin from the east side—the kind of cousin you find under highway bridges, collecting beer cans and Little Debbies wrappers—the kind of water old men in fishing vests stay away from. The kind of place we love. Billie and I come to a skidding halt and hop over the guardrail. We crouch lower as we get closer. The smell of garbage gets stronger. We see our first tail. Billie lays down a hammer cast.
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Seventh Period
https://digital.theflyfishjournal.com/articles/seventh-period