Bewlay Brother
01-10-2012, 07:43 PM
This is an excerpt from a novel.
My fondest memories from elementary school are mostly from my time spent on the school bus. There was a deranged sort of comfort on those yellow school busses. I had a malnourished sense of self and to go with that, a sickly prissy friend Brandon. He was my neighbor and we had an odd friendship. We go way back and I have some strange memories of things I did with him, but I never really knew him that well. Bus number 2 was our element.
We were polite in first grade. Never made any fuss and just talked. I don’t know what we talked about, but I imagine nothing groundbreaking or original. I do recall Brandon saying that he wanted to be president, and that is how he dressed for Halloween. Second grade we started to get unruly, especially me. This is when I first started to get recognition. I had a show. I called it Joe’s Disgusting Show. I would do disgusting and vile things and everyone else on the bus would watch. I would lick shoes or lick the floor or lick the window or any other sort of gross thing that didn’t involve any bodily functions. I wasn’t depraved. I just might have had a cowlick. I must have put my mom in an awkward position when I came home and exclaimed that people liked me. Too bad I was too young to appreciate the way her face changed when I told her the reason why.
Brandon and I started to make trouble in third grade. We brought supplies and planned to make a container underneath our seat to store stuff in, like a clubhouse or treehouse in the school bus. We never got far because there isn’t a fine line between accessorizing and vandalizing, and we were never delinquents. Usually we just got in trouble for making lots of noise or throwing things out the window, and Gordon the bus driver would slam on the brakes and yell at us. I was terrified of being yelled at by my parents or teachers, but for some reason being yelled at by the bus driver never had the same horror. The bus ride was fun chaos and the only thing we were scared of was suspension. One day I went onto the bus and found that a delinquent spray painted “I Hate Niggers” on my seat. I sat rather quietly that day.
I moved on from Brandon that day. It was my first big stride towards becoming an actual human being. It was the day that I looked out the window. The bus was still louder than an ambulance but less loud than the orange of the maples. Though that wasn’t what was fascinating. The bus driver was passing so we were on the far left lane while traveling up a hill and naturally I looked to see what we were driving up and away from. There was a white abandoned building surrounded by a sea of concrete, literally this particular day as it rained heavily the day before. Though the concrete was not smooth nor flat nor clean, but hideous and patches of weeds and unwanted growth sprouted up everywhere. The water looked nasty as it lay there; forming an army of puddles, and the only saving grace was the sun that investigated it so rudely. The whole scene could have been gruesome and considered a seal of decadence for our junky town but it was saved. It was saved by the same genre of art that I was shamefully pressing my back against. But this graffiti was grand. Someone in bold and authoritative letters spray painted the words THINK FOR YOURSELF on the building. Truer words have never been spoken. They apply to everything. The juxtaposition of the wasteland and the words of wisdom was staggering and pinned me to what I felt was the ground. It was absolute beauty and stopped everything but then I looked around and saw everyone else was still moving, unmoved, and oblivious to what was just outside the window. I couldn’t believe it. How could they not see the beauty? The halted growth of my town is a miracle because to this very day, the wasteland and the abandoned building remain. Though it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if they tried to salvage or replace the wasteland or even if they just censored the prophetic message. The worst thing that could ever happen is if some unoriginal and filthy f***er came and spray painted some abhorrent add-on. I realized two things that day: no beauty is realized and obvious to everyone, but that isn’t the fault of the beauty, and I learned just how big of a difference there is between good and bad art. THINK FOR YOURSELF or I Hate Niggers.
My fondest memories from elementary school are mostly from my time spent on the school bus. There was a deranged sort of comfort on those yellow school busses. I had a malnourished sense of self and to go with that, a sickly prissy friend Brandon. He was my neighbor and we had an odd friendship. We go way back and I have some strange memories of things I did with him, but I never really knew him that well. Bus number 2 was our element.
We were polite in first grade. Never made any fuss and just talked. I don’t know what we talked about, but I imagine nothing groundbreaking or original. I do recall Brandon saying that he wanted to be president, and that is how he dressed for Halloween. Second grade we started to get unruly, especially me. This is when I first started to get recognition. I had a show. I called it Joe’s Disgusting Show. I would do disgusting and vile things and everyone else on the bus would watch. I would lick shoes or lick the floor or lick the window or any other sort of gross thing that didn’t involve any bodily functions. I wasn’t depraved. I just might have had a cowlick. I must have put my mom in an awkward position when I came home and exclaimed that people liked me. Too bad I was too young to appreciate the way her face changed when I told her the reason why.
Brandon and I started to make trouble in third grade. We brought supplies and planned to make a container underneath our seat to store stuff in, like a clubhouse or treehouse in the school bus. We never got far because there isn’t a fine line between accessorizing and vandalizing, and we were never delinquents. Usually we just got in trouble for making lots of noise or throwing things out the window, and Gordon the bus driver would slam on the brakes and yell at us. I was terrified of being yelled at by my parents or teachers, but for some reason being yelled at by the bus driver never had the same horror. The bus ride was fun chaos and the only thing we were scared of was suspension. One day I went onto the bus and found that a delinquent spray painted “I Hate Niggers” on my seat. I sat rather quietly that day.
I moved on from Brandon that day. It was my first big stride towards becoming an actual human being. It was the day that I looked out the window. The bus was still louder than an ambulance but less loud than the orange of the maples. Though that wasn’t what was fascinating. The bus driver was passing so we were on the far left lane while traveling up a hill and naturally I looked to see what we were driving up and away from. There was a white abandoned building surrounded by a sea of concrete, literally this particular day as it rained heavily the day before. Though the concrete was not smooth nor flat nor clean, but hideous and patches of weeds and unwanted growth sprouted up everywhere. The water looked nasty as it lay there; forming an army of puddles, and the only saving grace was the sun that investigated it so rudely. The whole scene could have been gruesome and considered a seal of decadence for our junky town but it was saved. It was saved by the same genre of art that I was shamefully pressing my back against. But this graffiti was grand. Someone in bold and authoritative letters spray painted the words THINK FOR YOURSELF on the building. Truer words have never been spoken. They apply to everything. The juxtaposition of the wasteland and the words of wisdom was staggering and pinned me to what I felt was the ground. It was absolute beauty and stopped everything but then I looked around and saw everyone else was still moving, unmoved, and oblivious to what was just outside the window. I couldn’t believe it. How could they not see the beauty? The halted growth of my town is a miracle because to this very day, the wasteland and the abandoned building remain. Though it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if they tried to salvage or replace the wasteland or even if they just censored the prophetic message. The worst thing that could ever happen is if some unoriginal and filthy f***er came and spray painted some abhorrent add-on. I realized two things that day: no beauty is realized and obvious to everyone, but that isn’t the fault of the beauty, and I learned just how big of a difference there is between good and bad art. THINK FOR YOURSELF or I Hate Niggers.