Write a flash about playing hooky from school or work.
I’ve been doing so much dialogue lately I thought I’d try straight exposition. I’d make some kind of apology for this flash, but, and here’s a hard truth; I don’t want to. I am unrepentant. I have no remorse. I might even have shit to do
If you were to ask my advice about how to get along in an institution, my first word would be don’t. Boy Scouts, School, marriage, army, air force, marines, asylum, it’s all the same thing; just don’t. Just say no, just do it, say no. But if you have no choice (wait, this is America, you always have a choice. Yeah? Try skipping a nap in kindergarten, go behind the monkey bars to grab a smoke. Freedom my ass. They took my smokes and I was off cookies and milk for a week.) there are three simple rules; Never volunteer for anything, Always go to religious service and, if you can manage it, claim a religion with dietary restrictions.
Volunteering is how you wind up on your belly stabbing the dirt for mines, and that’s just school and the boy scouts; marriage you’re naked on your belly in the dirt stabbing for mines while screechy banshee sounds berate you and throw the cheap ass china your aunt gave you for the last anniversary at your head.
You sign up for religious services and you get left alone for at least one hour a week. God is an institution, they figure if you’re hanging with him they don’t have to remind you how tethered you are. Institution food is made in great big buckets, glopped into silver heating trays and re-marketed until it’s eaten. True story; there was this cook in my little prison that would use the left over corn dogs from dinner to make corn dog omelets in the morning. He’d chop them up. He left the sticks in.
Playing hooky is not rebellion, it’s survival. Until they throw you in a hole or a box or whatever small sensory deprivation punishment they have at their disposal, it is not just a point of honor, but a sacred duty to skip out, beat it, play hooky. Play is a fun word. Makes it sound like hide and seek. It’s more like digging out of a gulag with a plastic spork.
Again, kindergarten, I had to stab a hall monitor with a number two pencil, even with a silencer the glock made too much noise. The vice principal called it collateral damage. Collateral damage my ass, if it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it gets graphite in the neck like a duck. When you work for the man you are the man. That kid could have burned his hall monitor badge; he didn’t. He pinned it to his fascist Osh kosh by gosh cardigan for The Man in training.
I made it to the taco bell and bought three hours of cruising for marks before they threw me in the hole; Ratamurski’s after school program for willful children. I don’t know what they shot me up with, but it wasn’t sodium pentothal. Besides three hours of puppy dog begging eyes and I had enough burrito supremes in me to absorb anything shy of the cocktail for capital punishment. Oh, and the bitch rapped my knuckles with a ruler.
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