The Mental Maunderings of a Mad Man

Morning begins as most do for me; my alarm blaring unnoticed a quarter of an hour after its futile cry arose, my blankets wrapped around either my feet or my shoulder, my torso cold an uncovered, and my mother shouting in annoyance at me to wake while she exits the door on the way to work.

A lazy, aimless slap hits the snooze bar by chance and for a few glorious moments I am left in peace and quiet. Just as a prayer of thanks leaves my drooling lips a worn, old hand brings sudden and unexpected pain to the exposed skin of my lower back. I groan as the stinging sensation radiates throughout my tender flesh and my father chuckles in that deep, low baritone of his.

“You’re eighteen,” he smiles at me when I slowly turn towards him, “It’s about time you learn to get up when the alarm rings.” He chuckles again making the grey streaked whiskers of his untrimmed goatee rustle and pats me gingerly where he had struck me just seconds ago. “When you’re in college I won’t be there to drag you out of bed, you know.”

“I know,” I mutter and sit up, a crumpled blanket falls to the cold linoleum when my legs swing off the side of the bed. “I was getting up, just taking my time.”

“Sure you were,” my father straightens his tie and stands to leave, “Have a good day son, oh,” he turns back to me and frowns a bit, “They’re calling for severe weather warnings and even tornado warnings, something strange is going on with the atmosphere, so drive safe.”

My assurances and farewells follow my father out the door and I toss the last of the tangled sheets off myself. Two roaring engines give me notice of my parents’ departures and I drudge away from the comfort of a soft, cool bed and into a warm shower. Annoyed by poor water pressure and startled by sudden claps of thunder I end my shower early and dress quickly in my usual garb

“Good Goddess,” I pray, “let today go well, the last thing I need is another day of craziness. Praise Eris.” And with that I lumber out to my car, squeeze in, and putter off.

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Asinine drivers, roadblocks, unnecessary detours, and police virtually around every corner mar my drive to school. Silent prayers beg for things to ease up soon but as always they go unanswered. Friends, well, acquaintances say hello and ask how I’m doing, random classmates gasp and gossip about recent actions between two of the more popular students last week, and freshmen shout at the sky and wander aloud if we’ll be given the afternoon off. They should know better, the superintendent wouldn’t call a day of school off even if the world was ending.

A rancid breakfast of sour milk and stale biscuits is scarfed down and I maunder through the crowds of fraternizing youth on a crow’s flight path to my locker. My head stays down but nods to the beat as mesmerizing music pours forth from my earbuds and soaks lovingly into my psyche. The dull bass blocks all thought as muscle memory contorts my fingers and twists a cheap combination lock open. A thin hoodie replaces the thick jacket on my shoulders and a heavy bookbag is traded for two binders and a faded copy of Fitzgerald’s masterpiece. I head for English class.

The hallways empty at the first toll of the bell and I shuffle tiredly to Mr. Dijon’s class, of all my teachers he’s my favorite. Nirvana plays quietly in the background and my fellow students work diligently at avoiding the assignment entirely by texting, chatting, and sleeping. I turn to greet Mr. D but in his usual spot a substitute rests lazily. I roll my eyes and groan in disappointment, talking to Mr. D is one of the few highlights of my day. He’s the only gay teacher in the school, closeted but still, and he smokes like a chimney, weed that is. He’s a pretty cool guy.

I nod in confusion and disgust at the sub, something’s… something’s just not right about him. His clothes don’t match, his eyes are beady and distrusting, his skin hangs loose in some places and stretches tightly over other area. Though his beard is quite impressive.

“You’re late.” He draws the words out and clicks his tongue on the T. “Whyever is that?” he asks with a voice full of venom.

“I’ve a bad leg,” I motion to the mentioned limb and shrug, “It slows me down.”

“Well now, is that my fault?” he rises from the seat and a hand of yellowed and wrinkled fingers to his chin, sharp nails dig into his Fu Manchu and he grins showing his distinct lack of natural teeth. Golden dentures glisten as he launches into a tirade. “What could have possibly injured you so gravely at such a young and tender age that you limp, that you gimp, that you struggle to walk? What disastrous catastrophe, what horrendous incident, what horrible, grueling damage have you endured that has made you lame?”

“I tore my ACL-” I begin to explain but a dastardly cackle interrupts me.

“Your ACL? Your ACL! HAH!” he shouts and clamps a hand to his gut as he doubles over in menacing laughter. “What a shame and here I was anticipating something juicy like a prosthetic or some terminal disease. Oh well, there’s always next hour.”

“The hell is your problem?” I ask while inching away from his face, he’s come far too close to me during his little rant.

“Oh I have so many!” without warning he sprawls across Mr. D’s desk, knocking papers and books off with no regard to their owner, crosses his lanky legs and props his head up with one scrawny arm. The class seems not to notice. “First off there’s the AIDs, who knew, and then there’s the approaching cataclysm, oh, and my brat of a sister but you’re already familiar with her. Well that’s about everything actually.” His gnarly fingers tap against his pointed chin nonchalantly and I stare at him in utter disbelief.

“The sad thing is,” I mutter as i turn away and slouch to my seat, “we’ve had even weirder substitute teachers.”