Steckland Russ (II.iii) -- The Ride and The Slick

    (vii) --



    The bicycle Thirteen Division gave me is certainly the worst bike I've ever rode. The seat is stiff and makes my butt sorer than an insert-prison-joke-here line. The wheels wobble and the steering stalls on left turns. The acceleration lags and costs me at least three red lights on any journey. All it has going are its exceptional brakes (which have already saved my backside twice) and the fact it was an unexpected gift of charity from a cast of people I assumed forgot me after paperwork. As such, I shall begin my tale of the first great adventure of my new bicycle, which I have since dubbed "The Golden Hornet."
    I was leaving my last class yesterday, which as a Thursday was World History. The Golden Hornet was locked next to the side exit of the school, and as I approached a voice called out to me from across the street:

    'Yo Steck! Where you ride to?'

    It was Mal Larson, atop a rather decent looking black road bike. I shrugged timidly and went about my business of unlocking my back wheel from the frame. Mal zipped across the street and pulled up alongside me with a rubbery screech.

    'You headin' north?' he asked me.
   
    I shrugged again. I feel weird not shrugging at unexpected questions.
   
    'Yeah. I head north.'
    'Wanna ride together? I know a nice spot up, I'm sure it's not far outta your way. Let's go.'

    Every instinct in my flesh wanted to refuse his offer, and I don't know why. There was no logical reason to reject him, for I had no plans or no stern before-supper curfew imposed by my father. Yet my first thought was to humbly refuse him, and if I hadn't taken that extra second of consideration I dare say I would've done so and the adventure would never have happened.
    So I agreed and he led the way. We went up along Jarvis until Bloor, east on Bloor and across the viaduct until Broadview, followed Broadview into O' Connor Drive and then its transformation into Millwood Road. At this point I was remarkably confused, for I had no idea where I was and the twists and turns had dissolved my sense of direction.
    It was when we crossed the Leaside bridge that the city transformed from the one I knew into one I was aware of only by its ink on a map. Now we had passed this threshold and I admit to being rather scared. The winding Millwood Road wound so only to make me lost. The dead looking trees behind the chain fences of the ravine glowered in the breeze to choke me with their branches. The people on the street just stared hollowly at me as I passed them by, like the obscene stranger I was. We went under a bridge and three passing cars nearly swiped me with their rear-view mirrors, as if there were black and white posters of my face posted all over telephone poles.
    I am relieved to have survived this barren spot, and after a confusing trip north on hilly Bayview Avenue, we reached the temporary end of Lawrence East. The wind of the cars zooming past bothered our faces so we dismounted from our bikes and walked up to a big stone gateway. A small, lime damaged metal plaque fixed upon the stone wall read:

    Glendon Hall

    'What is this place?' I asked.
    'It's a college.' answered Mal.
    'Are we allowed to go in?'

    Mal had already started into the grounds before I could finish my question, so I followed him in. My senses, still affected from the ride, became completely overpowered by the atmosphere of this place. An old fulfilled man here could still be lifted by the nooks of joy scattered about, while an uninspired kid could find something to believe. The noisy speed traffic of Bayview stays behind the walls of this kingdom, for I could hear the slow breaths of Mal Larson as we walked deeper. These bright green trees bid me hello in the wind, and the pink and yellow flowers in front of every squat stone building danced by the whim of the same breeze. Students of the campus passed by us, their minds too immersed in study to afford us any acknowledgement. Some small groups we encountered were even speaking French. We came upon several different pathways and I wished there was time to take them all. The light from the sky shone colourfully upon a still pool of water and I wanted the sun never to go down. Still as I write this now I am boggled that such an Elysium could exist within this bustling ever-growing city, and how I never knew about it.
    Mal and I found a bench with an excellent view of a tree filled valley. He took the chance to ignite a cigarette while I just watched the distance.

    'Whaddya think, Steck?' Mal asked, exhaling smoke.
    'Can we come back here tomorrow?' I replied with a smile.

    ***

    On Friday I had the fortune of meeting the forever infamous, never suspicious, Marcos Slickon, or "Mark Slick" as he's often called. He is a character previously mentioned in every social circle window I've ever peered through but had never encountered in the flesh or the word. As it happened we were both in class, vaguely listening to one of Calsuco's lectures when Marcos dropped his pen. By whim of the universe, the pen rolled to me and I grabbed it up. It was a particularly sleek pen, and by the sleepy slouching of his shoulders I could tell Marcos had not noticed it was gone. I decided to give it back after class, and despite his haste to pack away his books and papers in some hurry I caught him at the doorway before the hallway hustle.

    'Hey, think this is yours'
   
    At first he looked at me as though I were a mosquito daring to disturb him. It was certainly intimidating, as Marcos fits into a bruiser image seamlessly: broad shoulders, a thin gold chain around his neck, short sharp hair, and piercing blue eyes to look an enemy or friend directly in the heart. Once he noticed his pen, outstretched in my hand, his attitude adjusted instantly.

    'Yo thanks! I was wondering where that went.'

    By his over-confidence I could tell he never knew it was missing.
   
    'So I guess you find Calsuco pretty boring, huh?' I asked casually.
    'Ugh, man! He just goes on and on, here's what I know and listen to me because I know, right? I mean he's a big buyer and all, if you catch me, but man I just don't get what he's sayin' most of the time...'
    'Yeah, yeah. I don't get him either.' said I simply.
    'For sure, for sure. He's always like: "Oooooo-kay, guys. I'm just going to taaaalk about sommmething raaaaaandom for, twenty minutes nowwwwww.'

    His impression was flawless. I chuckled easily.
   
    'Yo, you don't know the tall girl with the torpedos stickin' out all nice...?'
    'Lindsay Chambly?'
    'Damn boy, yeah! Mmmmm! Tell ya what I'd do with those but, huh, there's my girlfriend comin' down the hall. Hey, you ever need a little something something, whatever it is, you come find me hey hey? Thanks for finding my pen!'

    He jogged down the hall into the welcome of a dark haired, stern looking girl who crossed her arms as soon as he was within range. I observed this encounter between them without seeming obvious, and I pondered if this dynamic was normal in all relationships. Is there natural happiness in such complacency and obligation, or does it have to be battled for? Suddenly I felt relieved at being unaccounted for, as it seemed safer, easier. For a long time I'm sure though, I'll remember the way Mark Slick's eyes went all wide, like a toddler released into a playground, by the mention of Lindsay Chambly.
   
   

    (vii) -- The Ride and The Slick
   

Steckland Russ (II.ii) -- The Table and The Gift

    (vi) --



    As a week of classes have passed and I am yet mostly sane, I feel the need to mull over my initial impressions of classes.
    To start Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings is Philosophy, to ignite the minds of sleepyheads like me. I feel like I'll enjoy the class, despite that I've yet to arrive on time. Last class the teacher, Mr. Hayney, remarked that a young Kierkegaard was always late as well, whoever that is. He seems nice, in that he cannot go three minutes without releasing a loud boisterous laugh, which suits his round, bald balloon figure. I imagine if he was filled with any more helium he would make a fine explosion of chuckles.
    Period B begins my Tuesday and Thursday mornings: Drama with Mrs. Seddington. This is my third year taking Drama with Seddington, the only one who teaches it. As such, she has complete control over the course and material, and shows a shortage of patience with anyone who lacks her droll enthusiasm. She is a slender, tall, dark haired woman, bony but not unhealthy. Her skin has grown flabby with the progress of her middle age, yet she still dresses as he might have twenty years earlier.
    As I didn't take Drama until second year, I'm in the Grade Eleven class. Sure, there are a couple of Grade Twelve stragglers here like myself, but mostly it's a group of wide-eyed Eighty-Eight Born go-getters, eager to inquire upon my wisdom of future tests and their answers. Some of them get along with me quite fabulously: Len Baxter, a raunchy, sweaty sort of jokester who grows a better beard than I can: Bellamy Wondumas, the best student in the class, and while her acting talents are modest her stage smarts are prodigious. Perhaps her best bit of performance is acting like Len's clothes-off jokes don't disgust her in any way. Sam Peavy is another upstanding kid, and then there's Harold Cho, Sunnie Woom, Deka Navinara and Alex Coretetez. We're a core that's been together since the beginning, and I regret I cannot be there for the end.
    Period C is World History with Caruthers, which as I mentioned earlier was the only class I made on my first day. The class is okay: Caruthers is a bit of a sentimentalist which is a good quality in a History teacher, while that strange Soraunen girl hasn't caused any more scenes. In our second class together she sat next to me, but in our third class she took a seat way on the other side of the room. I must've weirded her out somehow without doing anything. Big surprise, that.
    Period D is scattered throughout the week, and I can never recall where it is until I look it up, usually when there's a homework assignment I haven't done. This year it's Film Studies with Ms. Weiss, a course I picked because at best it seemed like a possible career and at worst just moderately interesting. So far it has been neither. The work is burdened down by technicality, a great curtain of mechanical knowledge that lost my interest twenty minutes into the first lesson. We've spent a week looking at camera lenses and zoom mechanisms and now are supposed to write a test or essay on which camcorder model can offer the best effectiveness for a low budget production. It is information useful for people hungrily seeking this kind of knowledge, but not for me and my search for inspiration.
    Period E is English (quite a coincidence) with Calsuco, famous for his peculiar teaching methods and personality. I've heard, from many people who've had him before, that he tries his best to relate to students by coming down to our level, thinking along as we would think. I have not yet seen anything like this, aside from his occasional humming of Reggae and snappy PG-13 jokes. That Soraunen is also in this class, as is Tom Northcliffe and Pretty Lindsay Chambly, who has caught my eye and tied my tounge since Grade Nine.
    Period F is Gym with Mr. Kregheit, my Gym teacher three of my four years at Highview Collegiate. I only took Gym this year at all on the hope we would finally play Softball or Baseball for a few weeks. Every year it's been promised, but something more popular like Basketball or Rope Climbing Class takes over. They always put the Softball unit at the beginning of June, right before exams when most people stop showing up to class anyway. My loss, everyone else's indifference. Just once I'd like to jack a ball off the big brick wall of the West Building.
    Period G, the period before lunch on Mondays and Wednesdays and after lunch on Thursdays, is World Politics with Foxwell. As I've mentioned some experiences with her before I won't say anything more, except I predict the grade average for the first report card will be a lower number than her year of birth, and I'm certain she was alive when JFK was killed.
    Period H, finally, is Finance and Functions, my punishment for failing Grade Nine Math. One of the few certainties I have in my young life is that I will not be a Mathematician. To me, Math is bone-tighteningly boring. Useful certainly, but the lack of imagination that comes from studying Math puts vibrations under my skin. Maybe I never had the right teachers, maybe I was born to miss at long division, either way it's a course I have to pass and complete or I don't graduate. The classroom itself is also too old and hot, and the teacher Mr. Bhavla smells like curried chicken.
    So yes, that is the timetable for the Twelfth Grade of Steckland Russ. I make record of it now so that I or you, Mr. Future Steckland Bigshot, can make reference to it as my story continues. Surely many of my early impressions here will be proved wrong by time, and shall be those ones I do not expect.

    ***

    There is also a conversation with Principal Boller I suppose should be taken into account. It concerns the shenanigans of my first day, and I recall her marching up to me in a huff as I was leaving English class:

    'Steckland, like, what's going on Steckland? What's going on?'
    I don't understand.' said I simply.
    'The police were here asking for you, looking for you!'
    'The police?'
    'That's what I said!' said she, shaking her head.
    'Where are they?' I asked, feeling nervous in my innocence.
    'They're gone now but they left this note.'
   
    Ms. Boller handed me a folded piece of paper and I was relieved to see it was handwritten, without any kind of official stamps or lettering. It read:

    Hey Steck, some of the boys round the station left bad bout your rough break that day, so we all pitched in and got ya some new wheels. It's locked outside your school, you can find the keys under the back tire. It aint much, but we wanted to do something. Keep safe and don't do drugs!
                                    Sgt. Patrick Lawrence, 13 Division

    'So? What is it? What do they want? Why were they here?'
    'Er, well nothing bad, I...'
    'Nothing?' she interrupted.
    'No. Well, they just came to drop something off for me.'
    'Oh.'

    Ms. Boller gave me a quick exasperated look and stormed off down the hallway towards other frustrations. I hopped down the rotunda stairs and through the front doors of Highview and there outside, shining against a stop sign on this sunny autumn afternoon, was a bicycle with a blue bow atop. The brand was generic, the frame lopsided, the colour an eyesore yellow, but they were wheels and they were my wheels. I got home twice as fast as the bus would've taken me, and spent the two-fifty for fare on a jug of root beer.


    (vi) -- The Table and The Gift