Licensed to ill

Christmas break 1987. Halfway through 9th grade. They had designs. All drawn-up of all four sides, plus one from up-above aerial. But not the right stuff. They still needed, they still needed the most needed’est material. 

twas time to get ill

Jim lit his lighter to check his watch. It was already 5:29 a.m. Still nothing. He was waiting. And was growing more convinced that his friend was not going to show up. 

And was itchy. Itchy as hell because he had a scorching case of poison ivy up and down his forearms and wrists, and lower legs and ankles. And no matter how hard he tried not to, he kept scratching it. 

And was shivering. Because he was only wearing a t-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. The same exact faded neon-green Spud Mckenzie t-shirt, fresh neon-pink OP shorts, and new stocking-stuffer pair of flip-flops that he wore yesterday because yesterday was sunny and in the high 70’s all day long. It was only 53 degrees out, but he was freezing his South Florida ass off. 

He did not want to be discovered by some early-morning dog walker or jogger. So he complained again, again a muffled yell, “I knew he wouldn’t show up.”

He flicked his Bic to check the time again. It wouldn’t light. 

pain in ass  stupid fluid  butane gas

He shook it. Tried again. No luck. 

or is it a lint-roll  fucken stuck in  the flame-hole

It was too dark to check. He tried to light the lighter so many times that the tip of his thumb got sore from the striker wheel. Nothing. He decided right there that he does not like his Swatch Watch, a Christmas present. And wished he had his normal digital Casio on which had the button that lights up his screen. 

swatch watch is bullshwit 

He stood up and yawned an aggressive yawn which turned into an agitated full body stretch. And then threw his lighter. The force of which was strong enough to break whatever glass it smashed into. The shocking and unexpected sound of which made Jim’s whole body flinch. A jump high into the air that landed in a low crouched-down squatting position. There he held still. Looking like a catcher behind home-plate frozen in suspended animation. Listening. 

The coast was clear. He stood up in slow motion. Listening. And started scratching his left forearm and wrist with his right hand. Then all up and down his right forearm and wrist with his left hand. Then all over both lower legs and ankles with both of his hands. Then the forearms again, each hand scratching the other forearm and wrist at the same time this time.

He sat back down on his skateboard. His tackle box and fishing pole sat beside him on the poured concrete foundation floor. Of what looked like will be the kitchen of the house he was in. The house he was in that was still under construction. Where his friend was supposed to meet him some 30 minutes earlier at 5 a.m. 

The house’s exterior cinder brick walls were already built. The interior’s wall-framing was all up but no dry-wall was hung yet, like being inside an x-ray picture of a house. The roof’s a-frames were all installed, but not yet its plywood surface. So although it was too dark to see the time on his watch without the help of his lighter, there was enough ambient light from the nearest-by street lamp coming in through where the roof should be to see the outline and shape of things that are not hiding in the shadows of any of the walls. 

Outside of the house were two stacks of 4 X 8-foot sheets of plywood. Each stack, about waist height. He and his no-show friend counted exactly 40 sheets of plywood per stack yesterday. Eighty total. That they needed 12 of. 

*

Yesterday his no-show friend, Larry, said, pointing to the enormous thick black plastic straps binding each of the two stacks of plywood together, “I say we take 6 from each. The heights of each stack will both stay the same. Less noticeable.”

Jim ran his hand along the length of one of the straps nodding no, “Nah man there’s gotta be another nearby house under construction where they’ve already cut these huge plastic things.”

Larry jumped the small distance down from the top of the stack of plywood that he was standing on. Gripping his skateboard by its side and holding it over his head. He somehow managed to hang there. 

like tony hawk in  superslow mo-tion  

Upon landing he argued to Jim, “Dude. Man. No. Fuck that. This is it. We just looked. Everywhere. Like. Seriously. All day you’ve been like-

-Larry mimicked Jim, acting all scared and sheepish, ‘Nah… Nah man… Not this one… Let’s keep looking-

-Then returned to serious mode, and continued, “It’s like. Dude. Man. I’m done. I’ll be here tomorrow at 5 a.m. This house. Fuck looking more. I gotta go.”

Jim, still standing on his stack of plywood, asked, “Where?”

Larry threw his skateboard onto the new sub-division’s freshly paved smooth roads, sending it racing ahead of himself. He chased after his board, jumped onto it, and cruised away as he shouted his answer, “Dude! I've been telling you! I’m grounded if not home by 5 for Christmas Dinner!” 

Jim glanced at his wrist. It was 5:37 p.m. 

*

***end of sample***